Our Forever
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Forever is constantly changing. Theirs is no exception . . . . Extras and deleted scenes now in progress. Updated with 'Grandfather' in which Eli meets his granddaughter.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well. I said I would never do anything like this, but then this plot came to me and . . . . You know how it goes. I just had to go there. And I am SO excited to get this story off the ground, so I hope you all enjoy it (let me know, if you want). So Happy Summer everybody! Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I own nothing . . . . .**

Chance

"Hey, Zee-vah . . . ." his voice trails off and dips into silence as he comes across her sleeping form. She's curled up on the couch, eyes closed, face relaxed, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breathes. He glances at the cable box under the television where green numbers glow 7:45. "Hey," he whispers softly, crouching down so his lips are level with her ear, "Why don't you go lay down in the bedroom, hm?"

Dark mahogany eyes flutter open and rapid blinking ensues as she brings him into focus. "Wha'?" she wonders fuzzily, half asleep as strong arms lift her into a semi-upright position.

He cannot help but grin at the look on her face because there's something so innocent and fresh softening her features. It almost makes it worth risking mutilation to wake her up. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty," he says, hoisting her to her feet and supporting the slightness of her deadweight as she leans against him.

His bedroom is dark and quiet and cool and she sighs contentedly as she burrows herself between the sheets, rubbing her face against her pillow. He kisses her forehead, simultaneously tucking an errant curl behind her ear. And she murmurs something, but the words are incoherent and he can't quite decipher them . . . . So instead he just shakes his head and makes sure that the quiet click of the bedroom door doesn't startle her as he silently backs out of the room . . . .

* * *

She hears him enter the bedroom at a quarter till midnight. He stumbles over the carpet and soft curses are whispered vehemently into the darkness. Then the rustle of clothes being shed denotes the dip in the mattress as he sinks in beside her, the cool rush of air infiltrating the sheets before his body heat eradicates it again. He sighs, rolling onto his side, his back to her.

"Tony?" she says, her voice awake sounding. And it also has that edge that means she's been musing over something, something, more than likely, important because her accent seems thick in his ears.

The bed creaks as he shifts so he's facing her, studying her through the ebony fabric of darkness. She feels the question in his eyes but waits for the inquiry, "Did I wake you?"

"No."And there's more to this conversation, he knows, it's just a matter of time before she reveals her ulterior motive. . . . But the silence seems to stretch on and he's growing more impatient and worried with each passing second, so he musters up the courage to ask, "What's up?"

"I think I might be pregnant, Tony."

Neither say anything for a few heartbeats, either waiting for the other to offer their introspective. But before even that can be said, Ziva offers an amendment to her previous confession, "Actually, there is ninety-five percent chance that I am."

And he doesn't say anything at first, though he does reach up and flick the lamp on so that a soft glow permeates the room, sending pale rays chasing the shadows from every corner, effectively illuminating her face, as she stares up at the lazily spinning ceiling fan, dark eyes pensive.

And he doesn't exclaim, "What?" because he heard her perfectly. Nor does he assure her he isn't going anywhere; he doesn't insist that he won't leave and run away with some blonde to Las Vegas. She knows he's going to stay and he knows he's going to stay and there's no need to elaborate. And he doesn't ask her if it's his because, in all honesty, who else's baby could it be? McGee's? Seriously . . . . He doesn't reach out to touch her –yet- because she seems to still be thinking. And he definitely isn't going let his fingers settle on the toned skin of her stomach if only because she'd most likely maim him. He doesn't profess his undying love since she already knows that too and he doesn't bring up the prospect of their boss because, frankly, Gibbs just doesn't belong in here right now. . . .

"What're you thinking?" she asks, eyes never straying from the fixed point above them.

He sighs, drawing himself up to lean against the headboard. "Hmm . . . . I'm thinking . . . . that I am really excited. I mean, I'm nervous as all hell, but I'm excited. How about you? How'd you feel about this?" And now he dares to reach out and pick her hand up in his, toying with her fingers as she gathers up her thoughts.

And she takes a few minutes to answer, licks her lips a few times, a quick dart of a pink tongue and she is the epitome of stalling. And then she turns her face toward him, her eyes bright and perhaps a little damp, and grins. "I am terrified," she admits, "but I am also happy. This is a happy thing, yes?"

"A very happy thing," he agrees. Then, his voice softer, he asks gently, "Can I touch you now?"

Her gaze shifts down to their linked hands. "I don't know, Tony, can you?"

And he scoots over and wraps her up in his arms, kissing her forehead and nose before settling on her lips. "We can do this," he whispers in her ear and she cranes her neck around to peer up at him.

"Was there ever any doubt?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Because I forgot to say this in the first chapter: This story is AU. That being said, the timeline falls after Season 7. And it's taking place in May right now. . . . . . To everyone who reviewed, I love you. Seriously. It's exam week and you all made my day a million times over! So, we continue on and here it goes:

**DISCLAIMER: I own . . . . . Nothing. Ha. Betcha didn't see that one coming.**

Real

"You will be late for work," she informs him as she slouches in the doorway, watching his morning ritual of brushing his teeth, fixing his hair, shaving.

"I'w be onth fime," he reassures through a mouthful of toothpaste. Then after spitting into the sink, he turns around, leaning back against the vanity. "When's your appointment?"

"Nine fifteen." It's an offhanded comment, or at least it is in the way she says it. _Nine fifteen_. As if a trip to an obstetric clinic is her norm.

"I'll leave the office around a quarter till. I can swing by and pick you up." His expression is hopeful, almost as if she is going to say no. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she cannot help but think that she would like to decline . . . . However, she wants him there with her and he wants to be there with her and, really, who is she to deny him anything? Call her selfish or label her afraid, but she is positive that she cannot do this alone. Not that alone has ever even occurred to Tony. Why would she be alone? He isn't going anywhere . . . . "Um, Ziva? Is nine good?" his voice snaps her back into reality and she nods, smiling. "Do not be late."

"Of course not. My middle name is punctual."

"Fine then, Anthony Punctual DiNozzo. It's seven fifty-two."

"Damn."

* * *

The elevator dings and he finds himself glancing at the clock. Eight thirty-two. He has, what, fifteen minutes? And change?

"Ya working, DiNozzo?" comes the gruff, albeit expected, greeting from the silver-haired man as he passes his agent's desk, Styrofoam cup in hand, the sharp perfume of coffee following obediently in his wake.

"Of course, boss," and it's a reflex, this response. As if he'd be doing anything but working. Another peek is stolen of the clock, but, alas, the numbers seem no higher than sixteen seconds ago.

"You got somewhere you gotta be?" Gibbs asks, slapping his computer to life, glaring at the slowly waking monitor.

Tony shrugs to himself, taking his cue from fate as he's practically presented with an opportunity to make his case. "Actually, yeah, I kinda do."

His preamble is met with a steely blue stare of expectancy.

"I've got an important appointment in half an hour. Permission to take off?" He's already decided he will not take no for an answer, quite frankly, he's already half risen out of his chair, one arm in his suit jacket, the other unengaged hand swiping his car keys from his desk drawer.

And with an indifferent wave of Gibbs' hand, Tony is dismissed.

* * *

She's watching the blurs of passing building facades, the mix of varying shades of green as foliage rushes closer and then beyond. The cars on the road are an impressive pallet of color, a living rainbow fluxuating in speed just outside the windshield.

"You nervous?" he wonders aloud, eyes straying from the road momentarily to settle on her. And she shrugs, redirecting her attention to his familiar profile, "Yes."

"It'll be-"

"Fine?" He catches the slight twitch of her lips out of his peripheral.

"I need to work on my pep speeches," he murmurs absently, grinning when she chuckles lightly beside him. "Seriously, though, I've been thinking."

"Watch out."

He casts her a long sideways glance, expertly swinging into the parking space. "Someone's a little snarky this morning."

"You were thinking," she prompts gently, silent apology conveyed.

"Right," Tony nods, killing the ignition and leaning back. "I was thinking my apartment is bigger than yours . . . ."

"Are you asking me to move in with you, Tony?" And her eyes are calm and dark and a hint of amusement sparkles there too.

"Yes."

"One thing at a time, amor. One thing at a time."

* * *

She does not like the crisp antiseptic smell that clings to the walls, the polished tile floor, the cushioned chairs. She likes the clean, of course, because who would want to be treated in a dirty doctor's office, but she just doesn't quite feel comfortable in the sterility surrounding her. It is too hospital like, to reminiscent of her stay in Bethesda that September. Time has passed, yes, and scars have faded, but the impression still lingers . . . .

"Ziva David?"

Her head snaps up, eyes settling on the comely nurse patiently holding the door open for her. So she stands up and Tony follows her as the nurse addresses her warmly, "Ziva?"

"Yes."

A pleasant smile, "Come with me please. Dr. Rush is ready to see you."

* * *

The examination room is the antithesis of the waiting area. It is still spotless, the hygiene unquestionably suitable, but the suffocating nothingness feeling is relievingly absent.

There are electric candles resting in votives, the simulated flames flickering on the shelves. The wall adorned with posters depicting every stage of fetal development, illustrated babies tucked away safely in expanded bellies. A large diagram of the female reproductive system is tacked up on the backside of the door and Ziva is rather entertained to watch Tony staunchly keep his eyes averted from meeting the print.

In fact, watching Tony make his nonchalant sweep of the room is proving to be an effective diversion as she perches on the exam bed, anticipation rapidly building.

There's a knock and the door swings open and Ziva turns her snort into a cough because Tony very nearly dropped the plastic uterus he had been investigating and she doesn't want to draw attention to the near mishap.

Dr. Harper Rush is a rather attractive woman in her late thirties with shoulder length blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail. Dressed casually in grey slacks and a white blouse, she has that relaxing charisma hanging about her with soft hazel eyes and a sweet, easy smile.

"So," she says conversationally, "we have your test results and I would like to confirm that they are positive. Congratulations, Ms. David and Mr. DiNozzo, you're having a baby."

Neither are surprised at this news as both have seen the evidence in three little sticks all bearing a pink plus lined up neatly on the bathroom counter at home (only because Tony insisted on seeing and therefore dug through the wastebasket by the toilet to retrieve the discarded tests –needless to say, he was pleased with himself). However, hearing the verdict come from someone else unrelated to their relationship seems to carry more meaning than little plastic sticks that have been peed on.

Ziva finds herself releasing a shaky sigh because she hasn't really bothered to conjure up the alternative to the affirmative.

Dr. Rush leans back, allowing the couple to exchange a knowing, and private, glance before she stands up and begins washing her hands. "Let's take a look and see how it's going in there. Ziva, if you could lay back, please. Dad, if you can stand by her head." Tony moves as directed and Ziva lays down, fingers toying absently with the fabric of the hospital gown, while Dr. Rush bustles about procuring the appropriate machinery and technology for the procedure. The doctor takes up post beside the bed, situating herself on a stool within view of the monitor she's set up.

"The levels of hormones and the info you provided indicate that you're about, five, six weeks along. I'm hoping that if the latter is true, we might be able to hear the heartbeat . . . . Ms. David, this is probably going to be a little cold." The translucent blue gel is frigid, eliciting gooseflesh into erupting across the gold skin of Ziva's abdomen. "You ready?" And Dr. Rush sounds excited.

The wand is pressed against firm muscle, and a grey mass appears on screen. It takes Dr. Rush a moment of searching, but eventually she finds what she's looking for.

"Right there," she points to the denser spot amongst the shades of grey that shift with every heartbeat. "Come on, can't you see it?" she teases and Tony leans forward, squinting and wishing his vision was more 20/20.

"Right here?" he asks, indicating the exact spot as the doctor.

"Yes. . . . That's it. That's your baby."

"It's so . . . . small."

"Less than an inch."

Tony's eyes go wide, but don't leave the screen. "You're kidding."

Dr. Rush smiles and shakes her head, "No. How ya doing, Ziva?" And it suddenly occurs to Tony that his partner hasn't said anything, simply lying there, being quiet. He takes his eyes off the screen and turns dazedly to Ziva whose own mahogany gaze is unwavering in its memorization of the sight before her.

"Ziva?" he prods gently.

"I am okay," she murmurs and he notices the moisture in her eyes.

Dr. Rush shifts on her stool, reaching forward, her fingers flicking a switch . . . .

And a loud, rapid tattoo fills the air and it's beating fiercely and fast and it's so surreal . . . . Tony utters a soft, "Oh," and takes in a sharp breath and Dr. Rush is just sitting there and smiling because this is a highlight of her job.

Because now there is the irrefutable proof of what is to come, the captivating sound of a strong heartbeat bringing the almost unbelievable to genuine authenticity.

Ziva is having a baby.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, yes, I am being quick with updates because 1.) I am SO happy that summer is almost here 2.) I love you guys immensely and 3.) this is really a fun plot to map out (I am trying to undo and avoid every major pregnancy fic cliche possible). Now, that being said, you all are too sweet to even express -your reviews are making this week just awesome. Now here we go: I like the part with Gibbs, I'm a little unsure about my characterization on Abby and McGee -and nobody ask about the bunnies (consider it a plot bunny Mary Sue). Anyway, much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I only on a nice shiny B on the Chemistry exam from hell. :^) NCIS? Not so much.**

The Telling

He leaves Ziva at his apartment and returns to work and the smile on his face is a permanent fixture for the remainder of the day. No cases come across his desk, which is fine by him as it means he will be home at a decent hour tonight. Gibbs keeps glancing at Ziva's vacant desk and then at Tony because he knows her absence more than likely is linked to DiNozzo two hour disappearance earlier –Ziva is rarely ever 'sick'. McGee is keeping his eyes glued firmly to his monitor as Tony's happy stupor is vaguely unsettling . . . . He is almost fearful to ask why as they gather their respective things to leave hours later.

"What's got you in such a good mood, DiNozzo?" McGee's voice is suspicion smothered in genuine curiosity.

"Life." Alas a vague and wistful answer that beckons more inquiries and does not supply much resolution, but asking for clarification would seem intrusive. So McGee settles for asking another question that is, as far as he knows, completely unrelated to Tony's elation.

"What's up with Ziva?"

And again, frustratingly, the answer is, "Life."

And it isn't a lie nor is it a diversion or a variation of the truth. It's the uttermost veracity. But it isn't really what's _up_ with Ziva, per se, but what's _in_ Ziva. Life. Half of him, half of her with a heart that beats in a double time tempo.

Life. In the glorious form of _their baby._

* * *

"Are you sure you're up for this?" he asks worriedly as he holds open the heavy elevator door for her.

Ziva sighs, pressing the level three button, and turning to address her partner. "Tony," she says gently firm, "it is going to be a long eight months with you if you do not stop this incessant worrying. I am fine, I am tired, but I promise I am fine." Her palm connects with his cheek in a light slap and he grins in surrender.

"Getting off your case now," he promises as the elevator reaches their floor with a cheerful ding.

"Thank you," she replies, dropping her bag behind her desk and rousing her monitor with a tap of the spacebar. "Good morning, McGee," she calls warmly after she takes her seat, modifying the height because Abby had obviously spent yesterday upstairs and fiddled with the adjustments.

McGee's head appears from underneath his own respective desk, one hand holding a cable, the other a screwdriver. "Hey, Ziva," and he seems surprised to see her.

"What're you doing, McFixIt?" Tony wonders aloud, craning his neck to get a better vantage point as to what the younger man is doing.

"Re-routing my modem-"

"So you're doing your thing-"

"Yeah. Re-routing my modem-"

"I'm gonna be re-routing your jobs if you don't get busy," Gibbs interjects, striding into the bullpen with a full tray of coffee. He inclines his silver head toward the first desk on his left, greeting, "Ziva."

"Gibbs." And she's smiling beneath the smirk.

Styrofoam cups are passed around, each finding its way to its intended recipient –and it seems to be a job requirement here, knowing how your coworkers like their espresso. The take-out cup is set on the edge of Ziva's desk with a muted thunk and she utters a grateful, "Toda," but does not touch in. In fact, she's trying not to inhale because the rich, suddenly omnipresent odor seems to be rolling her stomach.

Her expression, as indiscernible as it may be, does not go unobserved by the former gunnery sergeant. "Something wrong, David?"

Dark eyes meet blue. "Not at all."

And he lets it go. For now.

* * *

When McGee finally untangles himself from the cables and wires and random cords, retreating to the confines of Abby's lab for, what most likely is, an early lunch, Gibbs is thoroughly stumped. Because Tony is actually behaving, he's grinning like a Cheshire moron pleased with his own joke, but he's _behaving_. Like he's trying to earn karmic points or something.

It's the rolling of Ziva's chair and the woman herself rising from her seat that pauses his train of thought.

"Ziva?" She doesn't seem distressed, she's actually smiling a little. Her eyes are calm and her shoulders relaxed as she comes to stand before his desk, leaning against the desktop, hands griping the edge.

"I need to talk to you. It is important," her voice is giving nothing away, but DiNozzo's eyes are wide and that alone is an indication that whatever comes next must be significant.

Gibbs leans back, hands folding on his chest, eyebrows raised in permission for her to continue.

"I am pregnant, Gibbs," and now her face has come alive and there's that hopeful anticipation leaching into her eyes, a brightness that seems happy and excited. And she doesn't even have her sentence completed when he rises out of his chair and navigates his desk to stand within arms open to his probationary agent.

His smile almost rivals Tony's, the younger man now lingering just beyond Ziva's shoulder. Gibbs pulls her to his chest, hugging her tight, rocking her slightly, his cheek against the side of her head and it's to hell with office protocol. And this may be the best news he's heard in quite a while. "Mazel tov, Ziver," he murmurs and she grips the back of his jacket and he knows she heard.

He holds her for a few more heartbeats before relinquishing her and meeting DiNozzo's guarded gaze –and Tony's trying to decide if he would rather be slapped or hugged and neither sound rather appealing. Instead, Gibbs steps around Ziva and extends his hand to Tony, who meets him halfway. And the younger man's green eyes register everything that is conveyed through that simple handshake. "Congratulations, Tony."

* * *

The ding of the elevator is obscured by the pulsing rhythm of heavy rock music, the noise pollution assaulting their ears the instant the metal doors slide open. However, it isn't the thunderous drum solo that causes the raised eyebrows and exchanged look of intrigue that pass between the two partners. Nor is it the woman dancing unawares before a complex tangle of machinery. Or the fact that the hem of her starched lab coat is longer than the plaid miniskirt she is wearing. And the tattoos inked across her alabaster skin is not out of the ordinary in the least.

McGee is sitting calmly at one of Abby's computers, the clacking of his fingers flying over the keys inaudible in the booming vortex of Spinal Tap. He seems immune to the racket spewing from the speakers, utterly focused on his current task. But McGee being in this basement domain, working with a PC, is no more extraordinary than the bubbly Goth working her forensic brilliance . . . . The playpen in the corner that seems to be teeming with squirming bunnies? Yes, that is new.

Tony attempts clearing his throat, but, alas, it is heard on ears that are deaf from Abby's preferred choice of music. Therefore, he resorts to yelling, "Abby!"

And in a swirl of black and red and lab coat white the music is gone and a bright, cheery, "Hi guys!" echoes around the new found silence.

Ziva is still staring at the rabbits, eyebrows furrowed as she takes in their presence (her life seems to be full of little things suddenly). She can't quite decide what is more bizarre: Rabbits in an animal rights activist's laboratory or, well, the rabbits in general.

"I see you see my little buddies," the scientist follows Ziva's line of vision and gravitates toward the pen. "I'm babysitting them for my friend, she had to go help her brother's friend's cousin move and couldn't leave them alone. They're just babies, after all." The irony of baby bunnies is not lost on Tony or Ziva.

"So," Abby's voice draws them back into the moment and the words perching on Ziva's tongue. "What brings you down here to my dwelling place? Do we have a case?" And the Goth's energy is mingling with Tony and Ziva's own excitement and the synergistic reaction is nearly too intense to comprehend.

Tony is trying really hard not to smile and Ziva has already failed miserably at her attempt to curb her own grin. And now Abby is looking expectantly back and forth between them, head cocked to the side and pigtails lopsided. "What's going on?" she presses earnestly, begging to be let in on the apparent secret.

Tony looks at Ziva, whose consent is given in the slightest of imperceptible nods. "Ziva's pregnant," and his hundred watt smile is now in full beam as a squealing Abby launches herself at the petite Israeli.

Ziva takes a staggering step backward, laughter spilling from her as Abby delivers one of her trademark hugs before belatedly realizing that crushing Ziva's internal organs is not beneficial to mother or child. The brunt of the reserved hugging force is redirected at Tony, who at least had time to brace himself, but cannot help the grunt that is forced from him as Abby bruises his ribs.

"Omigod . . . . Really? . . . . Like, ahhh! . . . ." and the rest is a garbled mess as Abby's enthusiasm spills over, everywhere. McGee is up now, bestowing his own congratulatory hug upon Ziva, granted he was able to restrain himself and not smother his coworker.

"Good for, Ziva. Both of you." And another handshake is exchanged with Tony –as well as a brotherly 'embrace.'

And happiness and liveliness abound and Ziva cannot help but think here may just be love.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This one is short, but I want to keep it moving and this seems like a nice filler . . . . Much love, Kit. Oh, and by the way, HAPPY OFFICIAL BEGINNING OF SUMMER VACATION!**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm on summer vacation. And I still don't own NCIS. We can't have everything, now can we?**

Moving On:

_11 weeks_

"How the hell are we going to get this out of here?" McGee's incredulous voice echoes through the mostly vacated apartment and Ziva cannot help but smirk to herself. She's sitting cross-legged on the cool tile floor of her kitchen, dishes and pots and old newspaper littered all around her. When she hears Tony's reply, she cannot help but notice his _duh_ sarcasm is slightly marred by his own vexed contemplation. His final verdict? "Carefully, McGee."

And neither man notices her when she pulls herself up and peers over the countertop to get better visualization on the little powwow gathered in her living room. Now a vacant space, the couch is virtually the only piece of furniture remaining aside from the secondhand Steinberger that seems to be the object of disturbance. And in her mind's eye she can see McGee's brow furrowed, a deep 'v' between his eyebrows as he analyzes the situation. And she actually does have Tony's profile in her line of sight and his eyes are narrowed, jaw tight, and it's obvious that his mind is working out a resolution to their predicament.

And one would think that two strong, adequate men would be able to figure out how to get an upright piano down three flights of stairs.

* * *

"Good god, Ziva, what's in here?"

Ziva glances over her shoulder and into the depths of her closet where Tony and McGee are straining to lift the large, steel box that resides behind her winter coats. She shrugs, absently tossing another t-shirt the laundry basket at her feet. "It is a gun safe." And it should be obvious.

"A gun safe. Full of guns."

"Yes." _What else?_ And she is struggling to comprehend why this is so odd, a federal agent having a gun safe in her closet.

"How many are in here?" McGee seems to be having trouble understanding what exactly is causing the insane amount of weight within –nevermind the material the steel case is made of is heavy on its own.

She moves her face from the doorway, returning to the dresser she is unloading (and in hindsight, it would probably be more effective to just take the drawer out and dump its contents into the hamper). She offers a rough guesstimate, "Maybe a little more than a half dozen . . . ."

Now Tony's voice comes muffled from the back of the closet, "Don't forget, you've got, like, your entire knife collection in there too."

"True."

McGee sighs, emerging from the closet's depths. "Can't we just leave it here? You could put your arsenal in Tony's safe?"

Tony looks at McGee like his previous statement is ludicrous, "I have a gun _box_. I keep my SIG and my off duty weapon in it –there's no way all of her stuff is gonna fit."

Ziva smiles sweetly, "And now you see why the safe needs to come with, yes?"

McGee groans and wonders if the same method of piano moving will apply here . . . .

* * *

It's the footsteps that alert her to his presence, the heavy shuffle of his tennis shoes and the squeaking of soles on the concrete floor of the corridor. "Hey," he calls as he strides through the front door, now propped open with a cardboard box packed full of paperback novels. "You have anymore that I can take down?" And he's referring to the boxes guarding her, two totally and a third halfway full of kitchen utensils and china and a spice rack.

She twists around, offering him a lopsided grin and, gesturing to the two boxes on her left, says, "Yes. Those two can go down –if you would wait a moment, I just need to pack away the last of these glasses and then I'll be done here. . . ." As she speaks she carefully lays a newspaper covered tumbler in the box open before her and he wonders absently if she'll handle the baby that gently and he knows she will.

He nods, even though she already turned back around, and picks up the circle of masking tape that rests on the countertop. There's a loud tearing sound as he rips a generous amount of tape off the roll to secure the top of the filled boxes on standby.

"Voila!" Ziva exclaims, smiling in the face of victory as she folds the four edges of the final box in on themselves and allows Tony to hoist her easily to her feet. "Done."

And she takes a final scrupulous inventory of the now empty space surrounding them. No trace of her remains, the couch, chair, kitchen table set, all cleared. Some is to be put away in storage, other pieces are destined for the local Good Will.

The remainder, including the gun safe, the piano, and herself, is bound for Tony's apartment.

She cannot help but think she is moving on to better things.

* * *

**A/N: From now on, I'm going to put the progress of the pregnancy in italics under the chapter title (this way I won't get my timeline messed up and no one will get confused). Still love you all, Kit!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This is fluffy. But we like fluff, yes? I like fluff -I love fluff. Fluff is . . . . nice. Anyway, here it is! The fruits of the first day of summer! Yay! Much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own a single thing. 'Tis a shame, 'tis a shame. **

Morning Glory

_Week 13: June_

He bolts upright, duvet falling away from his chest, confusion mingling with the retreating details of a rapidly fading dream. And he doesn't think it's the bizarreness of the nighttime vision, the elaborate tangle of images his sleeping brain had stolen from reality and the pictures it conjured itself, that rouses him . . . . Something is missing . . . . . .

Light leaks out from under the bathroom door and splashing sounds emanate from within and he realizes that she is no longer curled up beside him, asleep.

"Um, Ziva?" his voice is utterly concerned just outside the door and he's answered with a feeble groan. Disregarding common bathroom etiquette –as if the two of them have ever adhered to societal laws- he pushes the door open hesitantly to reveal his missing partner.

She's sitting on the floor, leaning up against the cool porcelain of the bathtub, legs stretched out in front of her. Her hair is restrained in a hastily tied ponytail and a fine film of perspiration is glistening on the warm gold skin of her face. Her eyes are tired and the toilet lid is up and he immediately comprehends what is going on.

She blinks at him owlishly, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "Good morning," she jokes weakly, eyelids slipping closed as she combats another bout of nausea.

"Back at ya, babe," he returns, slowly lowering himself to the floor so he can sit beside her. "Have I missed much of the party?"

"Mmm," she hums, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. "Not too much. Did I wake you?"

"Nah," he assures, stifling a yawn over her head. He shifts into a more comfortable position, wrapping his arm around her slim waist, both familiar now with this routine. "Would it be totally redundant to ask you how you're feeling?"

Ziva sighs, but it isn't out of exasperation. "I am tired, I have a headache, and I am nauseous . . . . But I cannot say I have many complaints." And she doesn't, not really. This is just the first trimester, this is what she was told to expect and, therefore, did. She isn't comfortable by any means, but this cannot be misery.

* * *

"Hey, Ziva, you ready?"

She's standing in the middle of their (_their_) bedroom, hands on her hips, viewing her side profile in the full length mirror from her apartment. She has on the t-shirt she wore to bed and black slacks and her eyebrows are knit together.

"Whatcha doing?" And now he's standing behind her, green eyes finding brown in their reflection. He's already dressed for work, impeccable charcoal suit and silk tie, hair combed, the only thing missing is his shoes.

Ziva turns to him, lifting up the hem of her (his) shirt exposing smooth skin and the open fly of her pants. "They will not zip," she informs him.

He's a little slow this morning and clarifies her reply with, "The zippers stuck."

"Tony," she's patient this morning and he is very very lucky as she explains smoothly, "the pants will not close."

Silence.

"Because they do not fit."

His eyes go wide as he moves his hands to her shoulders, guiding her so her profile is once again presented to the mirror. He analyzes her with the scrutiny of the seasoned investigator that he is, eyes raking over her body, pausing heavily on her stomach. "You're kidding," he murmurs, shifting his hold on her so that his fingers can brush lightly over the skin there at her abdomen, the golden flesh that is exposed because her slacks are too tight. Because there is the slightest swelling between her hipbones.

She smiles watching as he crouches down, as his careful fingers run over her belly, as he traces the dark line that starts just above her navel and runs southward, ending somewhere beyond the waistband of her underwear. She wonders idly if the baby can feel him, the gentle pressure he's exerting on her skin, if it is aware of the sensation through all the protective barriers her body has provided. Does it notice the warm breath that caresses her skin because his face is so close to the skin just above her navel?

Her fingers wind through his hair, tousling up the meticulously combed coiffure and his eyes flicker up and meet hers. She grins at him, still stroking his head as he presses a kiss to her skin.

"I love you." And he says it so matter-of-factly.

And even though it definitely isn't the first time he's ever told her this, there is that jolt in her chest when she hears the words.

_I love you._

She is certain the baby feels this too.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This one is brief and slighty angsty, so fair warning to you all. And I am hoping that it's in character. For the record, and to my knowledge and what I have gleaned from Google, Tay-Sachs is an awful (and rare) disease that manifests predominately in persons of Jewish descent, (especially Jews of European origins). Thalassaemia is another genetic disorder (also rare) that is found in ethnic groups of Mediterranean origin (like Italy). . . . I have no idea what genetic testing entails, nor do I know how accurate my disease information is (again, Google), so, you know. And I'm sure that there is more to the passing on of such genetic anomalies -remember we're taking heterozygous and homozygous and dominant and recessive and carriers etc. going on here. So yeah. Enough of that. . . . . . Much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Precisely.**

Night Terror

_Week 15, June_

"Tony?" her voice is barely audible, but in the deep recesses of his hibernating mind that are still vaguely conscious, it could be akin to her yelling his name. With Ziva's early hour bouts of morning sickness, he has found his hearing has become remarkably acute and now is no exception. He grunts, rolling over, blinking blearily at her through the dark.

"Yeah?" And his own voice is rough with sleep.

"I'm . . . . I am worried. For tomorrow," and she takes a deep breath and swallows hard before continuing, "What if they find something wrong?"

He's more alert now, sensing her mild distress, his fingers reaching out to brush against her arm, to beckon her closer. And she allows this, permits him to pull her against his chest, to wrap her in his warmth and hold her. One arm drapes around her waist, his palm splayed across the defined bulge of her abdomen. "There is nothing wrong, Ziva," he assures her, burying his face in her neck. "You'd know if something was wrong, right?"

"I-I-I don't know . . . . Tony, do you have any idea what this baby could have inherited? From me?" And then she is suddenly struck with an even more frightening realization: "Tony, what if I have given the baby something? What –what if my genes are not good?"

"Ziva!" the whisper is forceful, emphasized, and he wants her to hear him and really hear him. "There is nothing wrong with your genes –I doubt you've given the baby anything, okay? What've you been reading anyway?" And he honestly is curious as to what book has bred these poisonous thoughts that plague her.

"The screening is tomorrow." She's referring to the genetic testing that Dr. Rush is conducting tomorrow on the baby, a test that will reveal any anomalies or defects or other diseases that have been inherited from either mother or father. And apparently, she has been reading horror stories revolving around the results of such tests.

"Ziva . . . ."

"I am Jewish-"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Listen! I am Jewish . . . . What if I am a carrier of Tay-Sachs? Or something worse?" she's rambling at a ridiculous speed and he is scarcely able to catch all of what she is fervently whispering –he highly suspects that some of the tangle is in varying languages.

He tightens his hold on her, attempting to calm her down. "You've been looking on the Internet, haven't you? Ziva –how do you know which source is reliable? Hm? You've got yourself all worked up and now you can't sleep . . . . We'll handle it, alright, whatever happens, whatever they find, we'll get through it. All three of us."

She doesn't say anything after this for a very long time and he wonders briefly if she's fallen asleep. Then she sighs and says softly, "What are the chances this is the hormones talking?"

He chuckles lightly, pressing a kiss in the shell of her ear. "Probably very high."

"I am sorry I woke you up."

"Anytime, bella, anytime."

"I love you."

"I love you."

And he doesn't let go of her all night as she falls asleep, snoring softly, murmuring his name periodically. And he knows this because he remains awake for the majority of the night. And he too is aware of the things that their baby could have inherited, not only from her, but from him. And he's no medical expert, but there is thalassaemia in distant branches of his family tree. And hauntings of Somalia and medieval plagues infiltrate his shallow slumber leaving him exhausted and petrified.

He's never been religious and isn't entirely sure there is a higher being, but he does find himself offering up a silent prayer to whomever is listening, a desperate plea that please, please, let this baby be okay.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Okay, this is super short. Like 443 words short -but, I think this little resolution deserves its own little mini-chapter. And there is a little sweet spot in here too and tomorrow's fluff is major so you aren't totally deprived. :^) Much love, until tomorrow, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Let me ask you this: If I owned anything, would I need a disclaimer?**

Neshema Sheli

_Week 17, July_

"Good afternoon, Ms. David, Mr. DiNozzo," Dr. Rush smiles warmly as she greets them, closing the door behind her as she enters the room.

The tension in the air is palpable and so thick it could be sliced with the proverbial knife and the good doctor's first instinct is to ask what it is that has the couple so on edge. And then she remembers the file she has clutched in her hand and the mystery resolves itself with the realization.

"The baby is fine," she states simply, taking a seat on her stool at the foot of the bed on which Ziva perches. The room itself seems to take a collective sigh of relief and the apprehension dissipates immediately. "You were worried," and it isn't a question.

Ziva remains silent and Tony gives a curt nod and though the ghost of a smile is flickering across his lips, he still has not released Ziva's hand. "Just a bit," he admits weakly.

Having pity on the pair, Dr. Rush continues to speak, her voice almost reassuring as she explains her findings, "No signs of Tay-Sachs or Thalassaemia or hemophilia or other nasty anomalies. Everything looks good. So you can take a deep breath, Mom, your sea-monkey is fine." Ziva's mouth quirks up at the reference of the OB-GYN's pet name for the baby. "So . . . . How about we see what's going on in there?"

And Ziva comes alive, nodding as she scoots back and lies down obediently as the doctor moves about in preparation for the ultrasound. . . .

Two minutes later and the familiar sound of a rapid and strong pulse fills the silence and it's almost as if the baby is trying to reinforce the fact that it is absolutely wonderful.

"Can you tell what the sex is?" Ziva asks quietly, dark eyes never straying from the screen where a clearly defined silhouette has taken up residence.

Dr. Rush smiles, shifting the wand around her patient's abdomen, searching briefly for a certain indicative part of anatomy . . . . "You sure you want to know?"

"Yes," and it is an answer given in unison as both parents' interests are piqued.

"Okay then . . . . There's your daughter."

Tony swallows audibly, murmuring softly, "It's a girl."

"Neshema sheli," Ziva breathes, vision blurring.

And Tony thinks that there surely must be a God because there exists living proof of angels.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: WE MADE IT TO 100 REVIEWS! Sorry, I count that as a celebratory thing. Have I told you all how absolutely lovely you are? No? Yes? Well, you are, absolutely lovely . . . . This story was supposed to be about ten chapters and since we're currently at 8 and not even half way through the pregnancy, it is obviously going to be quite a bit more -you're up for that, right? I've been asked when All We Are will be updated/finished and I think that perhaps this may be my first hiatus (temporary, of course) on a story, but I'm afraid that's what it is. AWA is offically on hiatus. There. I said it, it's official (and you never know, it might motivate me to finish it!) Regardless, here is your daily dose of Tiva a la Kit. Enjoy! Much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: *disclaims***

Nesting

_Week 18 and a half, July_

She is enjoying her view immensely as she leans in the doorway, one hand unconsciously on her swollen stomach, the other gripping the doorjamb. He's up on the ladder, a tray of paint balanced precariously on the topmost rung and she is relieved when she notices he did remember to put a sheet on the floor to protect the carpet. The worn OSU shirt he has on is peppered in the same color that covers the majority of the walls, a soft green hue that is more melon-y than minty, and the faded jeans that are riding low on his hips have several splotches on the butt where he's apparently brushed off his hands.

"I love it, Tony," she says, wincing as he startles and very nearly falls off his perch on the ladder. "Sorry."

He regains his balance, turning around so he's lounging casually against the stepladder, patent smile firmly in place. "You're fine. I didn't know you were there." She has to be carrying five, ten extra pounds and is still able to creep silently throughout the apartment, like a, well, like a ninja. He looks around the room theatrically, green eyes taking in the pastel green paint, the fruits of his labor. "I got to admit," he confesses, "I thought you were crazy when you said you wanted green. But, it does look really nice." And it does, it's cool and inviting and soothing and perfect.

"Green symbolizes life. It is a healthy color," she explains, her own gaze traveling appreciatively around the space. "I still think I could have at least done the baseboards."

He rolls his eyes at this, climbing down gingerly. "You didn't need to be breathing in the fumes-" he himself has a faint headache- "Besides, we wouldn't want you falling over again, would we?" And he's grinning because he found it slightly funny, the little debacle from this morning, in which Ziva lost her balance and very nearly toppled over. Her center of gravity has shifted and he now finds himself watching her movements like a hawk, ready to catch her if she capsizes again.

She glares halfheartedly, "I think I alarmed McGee."

"Scared the hell out of him," Tony amends, still grinning. He's standing next to her now, brushing an unruly curl behind her ear.

"You have paint on your face," she informs him, reaching up to rub the paint smear from his cheek.

"Way to change the subject." But she ignores him.

"There," she says triumphant, her palm still cupping his face.

"Thank you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips and he can feel her grin against his mouth.

* * *

His hair is dripping down his bare back but his shower has left him borderline heatstroke so he doesn't mind. And it's a small wonder he was able to get all that paint off.

He wanders aimlessly into the kitchen in search of lemonade because Ziva had made a pitcher earlier when the D.C area hit a record breaking heatwave and he began to wonder if Gore wasn't as crazy as previously perceived. . . .

He passes the nursery, still reeking of paint, and is at the mouth of the little hallway that leads into the living room when he hears it. It's a soft melody in a high octave with an intricate harmony hovering seamlessly beneath. He's never heard it before, and though he certainly isn't a classical buff, he highly suspects that this is improv.

Ziva sits before the secondhand upright, facing away from him, long dark hair curling loosely to the middle of her back. Her head bob slightly in time to the tempo and her fingers dance gracefully across the ivory keys, ringing chords and a quick cascade of a major scale. And it isn't remarkably loud, but it isn't so soft that he has to strain to hear it.

And he wants so badly to join her there on the piano bench, to immerse himself in her sounds and her herself, but he doesn't. Because something is very personal about this concert that she isn't aware she's giving. He almost feels like he's intruding just standing there and listening, so he decides to forgo the lemonade and retreat back into the bedroom, permit her to have her moment, but before he can so much as move, her voice calls out over the serenade, "You can come in, Tony." And he blinks in surprise, but goes and takes up a place beside her anyways, wondering still how she does that.

"It's beautiful . . . . What is it?" And it is a question still.

She smiles, nimble fingers maneuvering effortlessly to find a low chord, and a side look is sent his way before her eyelids slip closed. "It is . . . . for her," she says wistfully, picking out a slower tempo in another key. "Dr. Rush said that she can hear me now, my heartbeat, my voice. I like to think she can hear this too."

"Do you think she can hear me?"

Another content smile, eyes still closed. "Of course."

Her eyes flutter open in time to see him grin impishly and slide of the bench, carefully lowering himself to his knees, supporting his weight by bracing his elbows on the wooden seat. And leaning over, his face comes to hover near the little knoll that is his daughter inside his partner. Ziva has long since allowed the music to fade, her foot still pressing on the damper pedal, the last notes whispering into oblivion in favor of watching him amusedly.

"What are you doing, ahuvi?"

"Shh," he mumbles, utterly focused on his current test. "Hey, baby girl. I dunno if you can hear me, but your mom thinks you can, so I guess we'll see . . . . It's your dad . . . . Um, let me see, ooh! I painted your room today. Only had to go to work till lunch and then I got to come home and paint. Paint, paint, paint. It's a very nice color, Honeydew, or at least that's what the swatch says. Honeydew. . . . ."

* * *

**A/N2: I love Tony. I honestly could see him doing this. But that is not why I am including a second author's note. This additional rambling is in regards to the previous chapter. Some of you were confused and that is entirely my fault. I didn't realize I uploaded the wrong/rough-draft version of Neshema Sheli -that is why the ending seemed like there was more to it. So if you read the original that was posted, my apologies. And if you have no inkling of idea as to what I could possibly be talking about, don't worry about it. It wasn't that big a deal and you didn't miss anything (other than possible confusion). All issues have been resolved. Moving onward, Kit! (And mucho much love! Again!)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Bridge chapter! I realized I hadn't included this mega-important milestone yet! So here we go . . . . Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: *sighs and shakes head***

Stirring

_Week 19 and three-quarters, July_

"Tony."

He looks up from the report he's typing, an open and shut case revolving an overdosing petty officer and an unhappy bunkmate. It's nearly seven at night and a light rain is falling gently, cooling down the roasting city and sending a calming aura throughout the navy yard.

"Yeah?"

"Come here," Ziva says, motioning to him. She's sitting at her desk, finishing up her own report detailing her contributions to their quest for justice, contributions that are quite substantial in actuality –being condemned to her desk for the duration of her pregnancy has not been as hellishly dull as she previously perceived. Now she beckons him with a quick motion of her hand and he slowly gets up and ambles over to her, eyebrows raised in silent appraisal.

"Yes," he says, stretching the monosyllable out languorously, eliciting a halfhearted glare from Ziva.

She's rolled her chair away from her desk and beckons him around to her, which seems to confuse him so she resorts to rearranging him herself so her intentions do not continue to be misinterpreted. Grabbing his hand in a gentle albeit firm grasp, spreading his palm over her belly and placing her hand atop his.

He cocks his head to the side, squatting down so he isn't at such an odd angle, eyes questioning with a barely repressed hope. Surely this can't be-

And there it is. A definite and deliberate nudge against his palm, the smallest, yet strongest, ripple of the fabric of Ziva's tunic.

* * *

He watches the pair from his place on the mezzanine, a perfect view of the bullpen's layout bellow him. And the expression on DiNozzo's face the epitome of awestruck. And Ziva isn't far from meshing into the description either. It's uncanny how all these huge things that have fallen around those two, oceans separating them, angry words, bullets, sand –he'd even include death . . . . They've been through hell and back, together, separately, always for the other. And all it took to really bring these two together? Is one tiny miracle in the form of a baby.

And he is an old man, he will not lie. He's aged with memories and tears and sawdust and wars and victories and it all goes on and on and on. . . . He doesn't think he'll forget just what it felt like to feel his little girl stir inside his wife all those lifetimes ago . . . .


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I think I like this one . . . . . Let me know, if you want? Kit. (It's kinda late and I don't have much to say -which means after I post this I'll be like "Oh! I forgot to tell them _ insert thought lapse here")**

**DISCLAIMER: Yes. Yes it is. A disclaimer. Because darn it all they still aren't mine.**

Celebration

_23 weeks, August_

He had told her on a Tuesday to leave Friday evening clear on her calendar, but when she asked him where they were going, he staunchly refused to tell her, it was a secret he said. And she remains amusedly impressed that the man has managed to keep from letting her on the surprise all week.

* * *

She stands before the mirror, analyzing her appearance with the scrutiny of the investigator she is. She had bought the dress a week ago on an impromptu shopping excursion with Abby. The target of their brief mall adventure had been to find Ziva sandals because, apparently, one of the many wonders of pregnancy is an increase in shoe size. And while they did find what they were looking for, Abby also was able to goad Ziva into purchasing a yellow sundress . . . .

It is what she is wearing now, the simple cotton garment light and comfortable, and, in her humble opinion, quite cute in actuality. The skirt is full, the hem modestly brushing the skin just above her knees, the sunny fabric cascading softly over the swell of her belly. The bodice of the dress is also reticent, the empire waist hitting just below her breasts, ample pregnancy cleavage reasonably displayed without bordering on distasteful. The frock is sleeveless, with wide straps crossing over her shoulders easily.

"Ziva?"

Tony's voice comes from the living room and while his tone is patient, she can sense that a reminder of their reservation time is perching ready on his tongue. Rearranging a stray curl that has come free of the loose braid she's plaited over her shoulder, she casts one final glance in the mirror and, satisfied with what she sees, grabs her purse off the counter and goes out to join her date.

* * *

The low whistle that greets her brings a smile to her face and a spark to her eyes.

"You . . . . You're beautiful," he says genuinely, standing up from his perch on the arm of the couch.

"Thank you," she replies, dropping a chaste kiss onto his lips. "And you," there is a pause as she searches for the words . . . . "Clean up nice, yes?"

"Thank you," he returns with a smile, shepherding her through the door.

After he locks up the apartment behind them and pockets the key, his fingers wind with hers, linking their hands. He doesn't let go and she doesn't mind.

* * *

They're laughing hysterically, so much so that his side is sore and she's practically out of breath.

The patio around them is illuminated with little fairy lights and the slow jazz streaming from hidden speakers nearly downs out the low undercurrent of voices from surrounding tables. His "secret surprise" is dinner at a classy little steakhouse that boasts the best cuisine this side of D.C., and the table he booked is situated so that the view of the surrounding city is breathtaking, all twinkling lights and golden sparkles.

"You know," he says suddenly pensive, sobering up as she sips at her virgin daiquiri and regards him over the rim of her glass, one manicured eyebrow raised delicately. "I have something else for you."

"Tony," and her tone is warning, but receptive, dark eyes curious as she cocks her head to the side. "That is not fair . . . . I do not even know what we are celebrating," she admits, still racking her brain as to what this day is commemorating.

And he doesn't seem surprised by this confession, instead he leans back, his Cheshire grin lighting up his face and the area surrounding them. He holds up one finger in the universal gesture of 'one moment, please' as he rummages around in his pocket of his suit jacket draped casually over the back of his chair. "We are celebrating," he informs her smoothly, "us."

"Us." And it isn't a question, but it isn't a statement either.

"Yes. Us. Us and ours and forever."

"We are celebrating our forever?"

And his eyebrows draw together because this conversation has woven itself to borderline riddles and he now must untangle all the twists. "I love you," he finally states. "And I love our baby. And that is what we're celebrating." And now he procures a small black box, the velveteen resting benignly in his palm as he offers it to her. "Before you freak out on me, Ziva, just open it."

Her hand trembles as she takes it from him, her fingers shaking as she flips open the lid of the ring box. And she blames the hormones when tears prick her eyes as she beholds the ring nestled in a satin embrace.

It's a thin white gold band, elegant in its simplicity, with a cerulean gemstone set in the center.

"Tony," she murmurs. "It is beautiful."

His smile is both proud and excited as he explains quietly, "It's a blue topaz. It's the December birthstone –it's her birthstone."

"Thank you," she whispers –and she isn't thanking him merely for the ring.

He stands up and comes to her side of the table, taking the ring from its place and slipping it onto her finger. "Perfect fit," he acknowledges with a smirk and he isn't looking at her hand.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Don't hate me. Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned anything this wouldn't be necessary.**

The Call

_26 Weeks, September_

"So . . . ." The slamming of car doors nearly drowns out the elongated preamble and McGee suspects he'll have to repeat himself-

"So . . . . What?" And DiNozzo is regarding him patiently over the roof of the Charger, one eyebrow quirked upward in an invitation for McGee to continue.

"So, you going to marry Ziva?"

They begin their trek up the driveway, a search warrant tucked safely in DiNozzo's suit pocket. "Gee, McGee, way to get to the point."

"Well are you?"

A slow, theatrical intake of breath punctuated by a low rumble of thunder. Both men glance upward at the darkened sky, the thick shield of angry clouds looming ominously. Suspense being pursued long enough and, "No."

"No?" the younger man sounds incredulous.

"Yes," Tony confirms, "No. I'm not going to marry Ziva."

"W-"

"_Because _neither of us are the marrying type, you know? I think we're going to try the common law thing . . . . Why am I even explaining this to you?"

"You two have to recognize each other as husband and wife," McGee points out, ignoring DiNozzo's attempt to divert his attention.

Tony chuckles, "So long as I get to be the husband, I don't really mind."

"And you don't want a ceremony."

"No . . . . Ziva and I have a monogamous relationship, Probie. We don't need a piece of paper to acknowledge that."

"I know."

Tony pauses and slides his companion an odd glance. "Then what's with the third degree?"

McGee stops momentarily before recovering, "You guys are having a baby."

"It's been six months, Tim. Assimilate already, man," and Tony raps twice on the door after pressing the bell, calling, "Mrs. Walker? NCIS, we'd like to talk to you." And when silence answers him, he turns the door knob only to find it unlocked. "Mrs. Walker?"

The lights are off and the house is still, the foyer clear and clean and utterly undisturbed. A quick sweep of the single story reveals no sign of life aside from the two agents. Tony shrugs, holstering his gun, wandering into the kitchen to begin riffling through drawers while McGee turns to the laptop open on the coffee table. As the machine boots up, he continues the previous conversation with a slightly raised voice, "I mean, nobody's doubting you guys, Tony. If anyone's gonna make it, it's you and Ziva. Besides -we all saw it coming."

Tony pokes his through the doorway to look at his acting partner. "Seriously?"

And McGee offers him a smirk and a, "Duh –yeah. You work for a federal investigation agency, DiNozzo. We're not stupid."

Tony reciprocates the omniscient grin, ducking back to his previous task of sifting through drawers.

* * *

Abby had found the elusive encryption, relaying the message to Ziva, who in turn had contacted Gibbs.

Apparently, the victim wasn't really a victim afterall.

Elizabeth Walker, wife of four years to Major Daniel Walker, U.S.M.C., had played her part well, coming off as the neglected military wife all alone while her husband is deployed. Childless and friendless, she had claimed to have no idea as to why someone would break into her home late one night and take nothing but the lockbox she kept in her closet full of, she said, old photographs.

Old photographs apparently meaning a couple thousand dollars, an income substantiate brought in via illegal drug trade headquartered at storage facility in Bethesda.

She hasn't heard from Gibbs since she provided the information over an hour ago, but this is not unusual. Humming quietly to herself because the baby is awake and moving about inside, she scrapes the last bit of chocolate pudding from the disposable plastic cup. Of all the bizarre cravings she's heard of, chocolate pudding seems to be her only vice.

There is a slight nudge up under her ribcage, possibly a heel or an elbow, and she bites her lower lip to curb her grin as she presses her own fingers against the area. The baby offers another minute shove, shifting herself so she's up against, what Ziva guesses is, either a lung or her diaphragm because it's hard to take a deep breath. Ziva chuckles softly, murmuring in Spanish, as she massages her stomach, soothing her baby. And eventually the little one settles away from whatever it is she was compressing because suddenly Ziva is able to inhale easily. "Gracias, chica."

Her cell chirps brightly from its resting place beside her computer monitor and she snatches it up on the second trill a flash of lightening illuminates the bullpen. "David."

"Ziver." The voice is gruff and low and there's an edge to it that immediately makes her wary.

She takes a deep breath, hand still resting protectively on her belly, steeling herself. In a controlled and even tone, she asks reluctantly, "Where are you now?" And she's already gathering up her keys and her bag and her coat, IMing Abby to meet her in the parking garage.

"Bethesda." It's a sinking feeling that seems to infiltrate every inch of her.

"Who?" _Please no. Please no. Please no. Please no._

And it's one word that, even though she's prepared herself, sends her into a tailspin and her heart into her throat-

"Tony."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I was highly debating rather or not I should post this, but because I don't want you to hate me (M E Wofford) or send me angry plot bunnies (ImaginePeace) . . . . . I think I spoil you all too much. :^) I hope you are satisfied, my friends. Much love, Kit!**

**P.S. There is language in this chapter -nothing you don't hear walking down the street. **

**DISCLAIMER: Random Facts of the Day: 1.) Cats have memory span of 16 hours 2.) Swans are the only birds with a penis 3.) I will never own NCIS**

Everybody's Fine

"Damn," his head could very well be splitting in two, the pain is so intense. And he thinks surely he's been shot at point blank. And then he thinks if that's the case, he's dying. And if he's dying, then –"Damn it!"

McGee nearly topples out of his chair, eyes flying open in shock as Gibbs appears out of nowhere, pressing Tony's shoulder to keep the injured man from sitting up. "Easy DiNozzo," he grunts, restraining his senior agent.

"How long have I been out?" he demands roughly. And his throat is scratchy and his thoughts a little hazy.

McGee straightens up in his chair, glancing wearily at his watch, a quick mental calculation . . . . The final verdict? "'Bout an hour and a half."

"Damn. What the hell was I hit with?"

"This time? Two by four. Left a good dent –in the wood, I mean," McGee offers helpfully.

Tony groans and closes his eyes, his breathing still regular and he hasn't fallen back asleep. "A wood plank," he mutters, "That's original."

"Left a big ass splinter," Gibbs adds sagely.

"Did you at least get the dirt-bag?"

"Oh yeah. She's in lock up right now. Thinking of letting Ziva do the interview. . . ."

Tony sits up so fast even Gibbs is surprised. "Ziva-"

"Lay-" Gibbs growls, hand coming up to press against Tony's shoulder again, "-down. She's fine, I called her. Abby's bringing her here. Stay down."

Remarkably, Tony obeys, lying meekly in the hospital bed, eyes still closed. McGee stands up when his cell chirps denoting a received text. "That's Abby. I'll go meet them in the lobby." And he excuses himself from the silence, disappearing down the hall in search of his coworkers.

Gibbs remains standing, omnipresent coffee cup in hand, blue gaze staring blankly out the window at the nasty weather the brews on the other side of the glass. The rain lashes out vehemently, pelting the panes angrily.

Tony sighs . . . . "Boss?"

"Hmph."

"Any advice? How to deal with pissed off pregnant women? Specifically pissed off pregnant women of the Ziva David variety?"

Gibbs snorts in what very well could be considered a chuckle. "Let her talk. Don't interrupt, don't get defensive. Just . . . . let her get it out of her system. 'Bout all ya can do, DiNozzo," as he bestows this tried and true method upon the younger man, he migrates toward the door where he can see Ziva lingering in the corridor, eyes shadowed and worried. "And Tony?"

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Another piece of advice? _Never_ take what you have for granted. Got it?"

Tony grins weakly, "Got it, Boss."

* * *

"Ziver?"

She looks up from where she's been studying the polished tile of the hospital floor, wrapped damply in her coat, hair hanging limp around her face.

"He's fine."

And she nods silently, brushing pass him and into the room where her partner is.

He's lying flat on his back, head propped up on a pillow, right leg also elevated. The smile he offers her is both goofy and reassuring. "Hey," he greets her brightly, wincing slightly as he lifts his head.

She returns his grin with one of her own, hers tempered with exhaustion and stress. "Hey," she murmurs, drawing closer to his bedside. She swallows, asking, "How are you feeling?"

He shrugs, watching her sit down, watching her left hand come to cradle her abdomen, the blue stone of her ring glinting under the florescent lights. "Took a blow to the back of the head, knocked me out, but good news, I don't have a concussion. I did jar my bad knee and I have a headache from hell, but I've had worse. You?"

She sighs, running her fingers through her hair, "I do not like calls like that, Tony."

"Me neither. On a lighter note, I don't have to stay overnight."

Her lips quirk up slightly, "I am not waking you up every two hours."

"I'm not concussed. Thick skull, remember? Head slap calluses? Gotta thank Gibbs for that . . . ."

She ignores his rambling, leaning over and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, "Shut up, DiNozzo."

"Shutting up, Miss David."

* * *

She had been utterly terrified. Utterly and genuinely and thoroughly terrified.

A low grunt sounds near her ear, warm breath fanning against her neck and she smiles.

Because Tony is alive and breathing and warm beneath her as her head rests on his chest, the steady pulse of his heart beating against her cheek. He has one arm wrapped around her, their fingers entwined. His knee is propped up and the baby's awake, shifting about and preventing her mother from maintaining any form of sleep . . . . But Ziva doesn't mind. Because she's content to just lie and listen to the rain tapping rhythmically on the windows and the feeling of her little family all around her.

She is a lucky girl.

And the last dregs of fear drain from her body to be replaced with a soft contentedness.

_Everybody's fine._


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Here's your daily dose, my friends! And yes, we are naming the baby today. I hope you like it, the name and the chapter -I love the name and like the chapter okay so yeah. Much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Nothing you see is mine. Well, I mean, I wrote this, but the characters are DB's and CBS's. **

The Christening

_30 Weeks, October_

Sunday arrives and the air outside is a crisp fifty degrees, a little cool for a northeast October, but provides the perfect excuse to remain buried beneath the bedcovers all day.

Which is precisely what they are doing, lying in bed, the faint glow of the television illuminating the room.

He's leaning up against the headboard, supporting her as she lounges against him, her back to his chest. She's settled herself between his legs and both are remarkably comfortable, warm within their cocoon of blankets, sheets, pajamas and body heat.

Ziva flinches and then dissolves into laughter, Tony grinning because he too felt the movement.

"Hiccup?" he guesses, fingers tracing idle patterns across the cotton covering her stomach.

"Hiccup," she confirms as another small jump causes her skin to momentarily distend.

"She needs a name," he says after a moment of listening, watching, feeling, the hiccup display.

Ziva nods pensively, "I have been thinking about that."

"Same."

Another bout of silence.

"She needs a name with a meaning, a name she can make her own."

Tony sighs thoughtfully, "You have a family name you want to use? Your sister?"

"Tali." And it's a whisper, a breath, the exhalation of a memory.

"Tali's such a pretty name."

But Ziva shakes her head, explaining, "Tali is a beautiful name, but not her name. I do not want to use my family names. I do not want our daughter to know that –how it was, before . . . ." His hand comes up to rub her arm, reassure her through touch and the door is closed on David family names. "What about you? Are there any DiNozzo names that should be passed down?"

He pauses to consider this . . . . "How about we forgo family names? Start over?"

Ziva chuckles, "Deal. Something we like."

"Something she can make her own."

"Exactly."

Several names come to mind, noble women with strong characters, distinct personalities. People who have touched them both so deeply. . . . But ghosts plague those memories of unfinished lives and devastating deaths and neither can bring themselves to even mention their fallen beloved. Painful pasts and bloodstained childhoods and family names are best left alone. And while each reverently maintains their respective heritages, and while the baby will know her origins, it is tacitly decided she is American above all else.

"If you could name her anything, anything at all, what would it be?" Ziva asks, resting her head against his shoulder.

"You want a list?"

"You have a list?" And her voice is amused and slightly surprise.

"You want to hear it or not?"

"Oh," she chuckles, "Please share."

"Alyssa, Lesley, Olivia, Pollyanna-"

"Tony," her voice is reproachful. But he continues, "Tiffany, Madeline, Charlie, Whitney-"

Ziva interrupts him once more, "Wait. Charlie?"

Tony nods, "I thought it was different."

"I think it's beautiful. Charlie. It is sweet, yes?"

"Yes . . . . Charlie Grace," he says softly, carefully like it's glass.

Ziva twists around as best she can, repeating, "Charlie Grace . . . ."

"Yeah, Grace. Grace because if there is one thing I've learned these past years with you is that there has to be some divine intervention going on, some kind of blessing that's . . . ." And it's a quiet admission, spoken in a hushed whisper.

"I understand." And this too is a truth uttered in a barely audible voice. "Charlie Grace."

"Charlie Grace," he repeats and she hears the bright smile that is surely painted across his face.

"It's perfect –Oh! Baby," she explains needlessly, massaging the place left of her navel, Tony's hand joining hers. And he taps his fingers lightly against her belly and a responding thump meets his palm a few beats later.

"She likes it," he says, "Don't you, Charlie?"

A few more sound kicks confirm an approval.

And Tony presses his lips into the crook of Ziva's neck, drawing laughter from them both.

Grace indeed.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: ;^)**

**DISCLAIMER: Please.**

The Surprise

_Week 33, October_

It's his muttered cursing that makes her look up, eyebrows raised in inquiry even though his back is to her and he can't see her expression. "Is there a problem, Tony?" she wonders silkily, folding another onesie over her knee and taking a survey of the jumble of infant clothing surrounding her.

He is sitting amongst what is supposedly going to amount to a crib, various pieces and parts causing them both to doubt its safety factor when finally (hopefully) assembled. For something that will eventually hold a very precious thing, it does not seem to be the most sound . . . . Tony, of course, is not the builder-type and, of course, staunchly refuses to acknowledge this fact. "No problem, babe." And she ignores the smooth moniker as she does the apparent lie –because anyone with eyes could clearly see that this project is not going as it should . . . . .

"Would you read the directions and stop being such a typical male?" she asks exasperated, dropping another singlet into its designated pile at her left.

Tony sighs, turning around to look at her, addressing her pointedly, "Do you have a problem with my maleness, Miss David?"

And this inane rhetorical tease receives a skillful eye roll from Ziva as Tony continues, suddenly sheepish, "The directions, are not, ah, in English. And while I can read Spanish, it isn't entirely fluent . . . ."_ And if I put something together wrong and it collapses in on the baby?_

Ziva offers an understanding quirk of her lips, reaching out silently for the instructions, which he passes to her. "Shall I translate?" she asks gently.

He opens his mouth to respond accordingly when the doorbell begins to chime brightly. Tony makes to stand up, but the maneuver is inhibited by his temporarily decommissioned knee. Ziva, ever the lithe ninja, is already to her feet, joints popping loosely as she makes her way to the doorway, her partners voice trailing after her, "I'll be right here!"

* * *

She's a little surprised when the door swings open to reveal her boss, dressed down in faded Levis and a worn red pullover, standing before on her front stoop.

"Gibbs," she states unnecessarily.

"Ziva," he returns, blue eyes amused as he takes in her own appearance –a pair of grey sweatpants and a button down dress shirt that looks suspiciously like one of Tony's. "I came to drop off something."

The smile that graces her features is both unnerving and intriguing. "I am glad you are here," she tells him, siding aside so that he can come. He smirks at her relieved tone, wondering idly as she leads him through the apartment just what DiNozzo's screwed up.

* * *

Tony's cry of, "The reinforcements are here," is grateful, to put modestly and within the hour the crib is erect and functional, no left over screws that leave one scratching their heads in the classic, "Must've been a spare." Gibbs pronounces it stable and neither agent refutes this claim, instead the couple (he realizes he must acknowledge them as such) thank him profusely.

"Work's not done yet, DiNozzo," he drawls, leading the younger man to the door. "Need help moving something."

Tony's contribution to the 'moving' is basically informing the retired marine when to step and warning him of any approaching walls or obstacles. Because with his arms full of the 'something' the only part of Gibbs visible is the top of his silver head.

Several grunted curses, a few nearly misguided steps, and fifteen minutes, but the pair manage to get Ziva's surprise up two flights of stairs without a breaking anything.

* * *

Gibbs waits and lets her remove the impromptu wrapping paper/cushioning protection in the form of a quilt, a task which she completes with barely contained excitement. He stands so he can see her face when the blanket falls away to reveal his latest project.

It's a rocking chair, handmade from the wood of a cherry tree, glowing warm in the corner where it was placed. The grain is flawless, shining through the polished wood, carefully carved and molded and tempered to perfection. The arms of the chair have been whittled to resemble a cluster of roses, as have the runners and the long plank that runs across the top. Hours and hours of work have been put into the piece, hours and hours of love.

Tears have welled up in Ziva's eyes as she wraps her arms around Gibbs' neck, kissing his cheek. He, in turn, presses his lips to her temple. And Tony just beams at the sight before him.

If he can love his daughter half of what Gibbs loves his, he'll be alright.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Okay, you guys are really going to hate me :^) There will be no more updates for a couple days . . . . like a week couple of days. My mom, sister, and I are embarking at 4am tomorrow on an eighteen hour drive to Tennessee -that's right, ladies and gentlemen, Kit's going home! I haven't been back to my roots in about two years (curse last summer's bout with mono) but, alas, now I can! Yes! But, at the same time, slightly bittersweet because I will continue to work on this little fic, yet I won't be able to share since the Internet connection at my Nana's is sketchy, to say the least. I might be able to work some magic, though I doubt it. So my hiatus is not because I've gotten writer's block (knock on wood) or that I've forgotten about this (like that's possible). So, now continuing on after my long winded heads-up, shall we move on to our most recent addition to Our Forever? Kit.**

**P.S. Yes. I did cliche the Lamaze class. But I just had to go there. I couldn't resist. Besides -can imagine Tony and Ziva in a birthing class? It's some good stuff!**

**P.P.S. WE MADE IT TO 200 REVIEWS! SPLEEEE!**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm running out of witty things to put here . . . . **

A Learning Experience

_35 Weeks, November_

"_Okay_ class!"

"Is this the epitome of all movie clichés or what?" Tony's voice is near her ear, his breath warm on her neck, and she has to bite her lip to curb her smirk.

"Play nice," she whispers out of the corner of her mouth, keeping her eyes on the instructor at the front of the room, a perky matron in her fifties with a wild tangle of carrot orange curls constrained messily in a bun on top of her head. And Tony is right, Brenda Edwards is the quintessence of the media's portrayal of Lamaze instructors, energetic, exuberant, and slightly senile as she bops around the front of the room, a whirl of pink and neon orange spandex.

"So, let's make introductions! Who wants to start?" Brenda ("Call me Brenda! Ms. Edwards makes me sound so _old_!") asks eagerly, sparkling blue eyes casting about. The students, or the parents to be, number mightily as a group of seven couples –none of which seem willing to volunteer to Brenda's offer.

After several awkward moments of staring at each other, the younger woman on Ziva's left raises her hand uncertainly, rather out of pity on Brenda or as a noble sacrifice for her fellow classmates. Brenda seems to pounce on the brave girl.

And while acquaintances are established, Ziva permits herself to look around. The room is relatively large, blankets and mats spread about the wood floor and mirrors (for reasons unknown) lining the walls. Several massive yoga balls, all in bright spirited colors, stand at attention along the back wall and Ziva can only begin to imagine the nightmarish potential that is to become-

Tony pokes her gently in the side and it is her turn to familiarize the strangers surrounding her with herself.

"My name is Ziva and this is my partner, Tony. Er, this is our first baby. She's a girl, due December. . . . We are excited?" And while it is undoubted that they are in fact excited, the final statement leaves Ziva's lips posed as a question because she merely had no idea what else to say. She feels Tony shake behind her in poorly suppressed laughter and offers him a "what-to-do?" shrug.

Brenda beams cheerily, continuing on, "_Okay_! Let's start with some breathing techniques! Every one face your significant other!" There's a flurry of movement and Ziva scoots around to face Tony, his green eyes shining and patent grin lighting up his features.

"Told you this would be fun," he teases and she sticks her tongue out at him in good nature. It had been Dr. Rush's idea that they attend a birthing class together, and what lulled Ziva into the false sense of security at the idea is yet to be established. The previous night had been spent browsing YouTube with Tony, conjuring up every movie reference and modern parody involving Lamaze classes or similar seminars. He had said, "It can't be that bad" in indication to a movie called Baby Mama with a unique classroom situation. And alas, Ziva realizes, they have been jinxed.

The next fifteen minutes are spent in heavy breathing patterns, two quick inhales followed by a slow exhalation tempered with Tony making goofy expressions that result in Ziva losing count of her breathes and crumbling into mild laughing fits –which elicit some disgruntled glances from fellow pregnant women.

The next strategy they're tasked with is to discover comfortable laboring positions while utilizing the yoga balls. Tony can scarcely manage to keep a straight face as Ziva struggles to find her balance on the inflated sphere.

"Comfy yet?" he wonders innocently as she manages to get herself in a position where she is lying flat on the ball, her knees at right angle, feet on the ground.

"This is ridiculous," she sighs, grabbing his proffered hands to haul herself, and the baby, to a resumed sitting position. "I refuse to give birth on a ball."

"Don't quite think that's the point of the exercise, sweetheart."

And Ziva deadpans, "At least there's a point."

They're instructed on how to diaper a baby ("Ah, I have a hidden talent!").

And how to breastfeed ("Enjoying the show, DiNozzo?").

There is a description of a water birth ("She is baby, not a fish.").

And a short lecture on going au natural ("I'll let you call that one, Ziva.").

The remaining ten minutes of the two hour class is devoted to question time, inquiries ranging from recommended doulas to colicky infants –a worse case scenario example.

Charlie stirs a few minutes before the end of the class, her foot pressing on Ziva's rib. Getting the baby to move the offending limb occupies Ziva's attention for the next sixty-three seconds, sparing her from insanity, and Charlie decides to shift again right as Brenda exclaims, "Okay! That concludes session one! I'll see you all next week! Bye now!"

And it is literally stampede pregnant people waddling to the exit.

* * *

Tony turns the ignition and the car purrs to life, headlights slicing through the darkness and heat blasting through the vents. He looks over at Ziva and the moment their eyes meet they've dissolved into hysterics.

"That . . . . That was . . . . life affirming," Tony gasps and Ziva now has tears streaking down her cheeks, shaking with mirth.

"I can honestly say that was horrible," she agrees, wiping at her eyes. "We are not coming back."

"Only us," he says, shaking his head, "Only we could find the one instructor in D.C. that's totally off her rocker."

"Forget an epidural, I'll just have whatever she's taking."

"Okay!" Tony exclaims cheerily, backing out of the space. Then, sobering up slightly, he adds, "You know what?"

"Hm?" she's distractedly massaging her belly, tilting her head back against the headrest.

"You're beautiful."

Her face lights up in a warm smile, albeit a slightly uncertain one, and her hand reaches across the seat, her fingers entwining with his.

She doesn't let go.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Because I was asked nicely for another chapter to tie you all over until I can update again (and I highly doubt again will be tomorrow) I have an offering for you. It's just a sweet little bit of fluff because fluff is lovely. Much much love, my friends, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: (insert witty disclaimer here)**

Lullabies

_Week 37, November_

"Dormi, dormi, bel bambina. Vago figlia del mio cor. La tua madre sta vicino. Tutta gioia tutt' amor," her voice is a soft alto, a gentle cadence echoing sweetly on the night air. The nursery is warm and palely lit by the faint gold light of the floor lamp.

He's caught her talking to herself, talking to Charlie, on several occasions. Sometimes she speaks in English, switching back and forth between it and Hebrew –another that she favors- but many times it's one of the various other languages she knows, imprinting them upon their daughter before she even draws her first breath. Russian lullabies and French poems, recitations of Spanish fairytales and Arabic epics, all tangling together in a foreign jumble. And he does suspect that she allows the varying tongues to weave around each other, hybrid sentence composed of Italian and Hebrew, Spanish and English. And it's all beautiful, her lilting voice conversing and serenading their unborn baby.

The child will be well versed and multilingual or extremely confused.

And now as he lingers in the hallway, just outside the nursery door and the puddle of light that floods a swatch of carpet, listening, he is still enthralled with her, his partner, after years of working together. And while he could stand there forever and day, content to just be immersed in her voice, he cannot. Because it is three o'six in the morning and she's not in bed, sleeping.

Ziva's sitting in the rocking chair, sway back and forth, eyes closed, singing an Italian cradle song he recognizes. Her feet are wrapped up in socks and her body is swaddled in a terrycloth housecoat that falls open at her middle, revealing a heavily swollen stomach. She's snuck another one of his dress shirts from his closet because she's found them extremely comfortable (and roomy though he tries not to be offended) but he cannot bring himself to mind her borrowing his clothes. She looks beautiful, still glowing and golden with scarcely a month left.

He hates to break the spell but has to ask, "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

She doesn't startle, instead opens one eye and replies gently, "Probably. . . . Did I wake you?"

"No," he assures her, stepping into the room, eyes sweeping over the pink and green décor. Abby had surprised them both with three gorgeous knit blankets handmade by the nuns. The Goth had also gotten the baby a spinning mobile to go in the crib, the little charms hanging from the arms various animals –including a bat. McGee had bought Charlie a large stuffed turtle, the soft chenille fabric covering a fat plush shell. Abby had dubbed the critter Turtle Earl. McGee had also given Charlie her first book, a limited addition short story written and illustrated by Tom E. Gemcity himself. "You didn't wake me. . . . Are you okay?"

And she nods, closing both eyes again, her fingers rubbing across her pregnant belly. "I am fine. I just cannot sleep. Apparently insomnia is common in the third trimester."

Tony merely watches her, still rocking, silent. His hand comes up to stifle a yawn which prompts Ziva to say, "Go back to bed, ahuvi. I am fine."

"I don't want you to be alone."

"I'm not alone, Tony. Charlie's keeping me company. Go to bed, you'll be tired in the morning. I sleep during the day, it's fine." And Ziva has officially begun her maternity leave a week ago, to her mild reluctance and Tony's major relief.

He nods because she is right, of course.

"Laila tov," he murmurs, kissing her forehead. "I'll see you, um, later, I guess, when it's, like, daylight."

"I'll be here," she promises, looking at him with that calm serenity that has taken up residence within her eyes. She smiles at him and he reciprocates, his though more outwardly tired than hers.

"Night Charlie," he calls over his shoulder and Ziva crinkles her nose at him, chuckling softly.

He's several steps outside the doorway when the sounds of what he assumes is a Hebrew lullaby stirs the quietness again.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Coming to you live from Nashville Tennessee: Ink On Paper's OUR FOREVER! . . . . How's that for an author's note intro? Okay, I am sitting outside a Panera that has Wi-Fi uploading this because I love you all that much. So yes, Kit was able to work a miracle. It's short, but no complaining :^) Much love, keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Yes.**

The Waiting Game

_38 Weeks, December_

"Are you sure you're okay?" his voice is skeptical as he regards her across the kitchen. She's sitting at the table, trying her hardest not to grimace as she squirms, obviously uncomfortable.

"I am fine. It is . . . . what are they called? The contractions that are not contractions?" she snaps her fingers searching for the elusive phrase, brow furrowed in contemplation.

"Braxton Hicks?" he supplies over his shoulder while stirring the marinara sauce.

"Thank you! Braxton Hicks, yes!" Ziva says, tossing her hand for emphasis. "They are unpleasant."

"I cannot imagine."

He turns around to see her narrow her eyes at him, "Are you funning me, Tony?"'

"Humoring you, yes. Funning you, no."

Ziva makes a harrumph noise in the back of her throat, resuming her reading of What To Expect When You're Expecting – a book which she only just cracked open, flipping to the very last three chapters. A few moments pass and more fidgeting ensues before Tony turns around once more. "Are you sure those aren't, like, actual labor contractions?"

She glances up, marking her place in the book with her finger. "They start and stop, there is no pattern, I am not in agony. I pretty sure this is not labor, Tony."

He watches her quietly for a heartbeat or two before deciding to turn down the stovetop. "You," he says, grinning mischievously, "need a distraction." And with that being said, he leans across the counter, flicking to life the radio perched upon a stack of cookbooks. The station is tuned to jazz, a slow ballad giving way to livelier foxtrot. "Come here," Tony motions, sliding over to Ziva and tugging her to her feet.

Her eyes flash with amusement as she glares halfheartedly at him. "Tony," and her tone is not at all reproachful. He just smiles even broader, slipping his left hand to the curve of her waist, entwining their right hands together. She places her free hand on his shoulder, staring up at him, eyes laughing, face smiling. He tugs her nearer, though her convexing stomach impedes their closeness.

He waltzes her around the kitchen, humming along to a song he's most likely never heard before. And her soft laughter acts as a counter harmony to the swinging melody.

"Charlie," he says loudly, eyes never wavering from his partner's, "you're mother can dance."

Ziva snorts, "A feat in itself as I am literally as big as an orca."

"A whale, babe."

"An orca is a whale."

"Actually it's a dolphin."

"A killer _whale_ is an orca, yes?"

Tony frowns slightly, "Well, yeah, it's a false cognate . . . . How did we get here?"

"You were distracting me, Tony," Ziva prompts vaguely, still permitting to be spun slowly now about the kitchen.

Tony nods, smile returning, "Right. For to the record, you are the most beautiful orca I've ever seen."

"I am going to take that as a compliment," she says, eyes narrowing.

He just chuckles and drops a kiss to her lips.

"I love you," he murmurs earnestly against her mouth. "I love you so very much."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: :^) How's this for an early Christmas present?**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Tis sad, tis sad.**

Home

_Week 38 and a half, December_

"_I simply must go-" _

"_Baby, it's cold outside-"__  
"The answer is no-" _

"_Ooh baby, it's cold outside-"  
This welcome has been-" _

"_I'm lucky that you dropped in-"  
"So nice and warm-"_

"_Look out the window at that storm-"  
"My sister will be suspicious-"_

"You know," Ziva says pensively, rising on her tiptoes to pass another glass ornament up to Tony, who once again finds himself perched precariously atop the ladder, "I have never actually decorated for Christmas."

"Not true," he counters. "We have our tradition thing-"

"Where I help you decorate your tree?" she interrupts innocently.

He shivers involuntarily, glaring down at her: "Not fair. And yes I am referring to the tradition in which you decorate my _Christmas tree_. Seriously, do you want me to fall?"

She smirks, raising her eyebrows suggestively, "Am I making you uncomfortable, Tony?"

"That's one way to put it, Zee-vah. Hand me that pinecone thing Abby made." And he's indicating one of the several pinecones the Goth gave him years ago, all coated in red and green glitter. Ziva picks the smaller one, passing it up to Tony, watching loose glitter drift back down toward her. She wanders back to the box of ornaments, selecting a fragile blue sphere and sending it along its way. For some reason, she finds herself wondering idly what color the baby's eyes will be.

* * *

"This is my favorite," Tony announces. He's holding a large glass orb painted to depict a silhouette of the D.C. skyline.

Ziva smiles, "Home . . . . Tony?"

He glances up, head cocked to the side. "Yeah?"

Ziva shows him the glass dreidel, hanging from her fingers on a silver thread. "Where did this come from?"

He flushes, "Um. . . . Happy Hanukah?"

"Thank you, motek," she murmurs, leaning over to brush her lips to his cheek. "It is beautiful."

And he doesn't tell her what it means, the symbol of her faith suspended from the green branches of the Christmas tree standing proudly in his living room. And he doesn't tell her, and he probably never will, how happy it makes him to see it. Because it seems permanent now, her presence in his life. She's there, actually and honestly and truly there.

"Hey Ziva?"

"Mm-hm?"

"I'm glad you're here." And it sounds so silly, of course, but it cannot be more true.

She blinks at him, confused. "Where else would I be?" And when she sees the look in his eyes, she understands, saying softly, "I'm glad too."

* * *

Tony falls asleep on the couch with Ziva resting against his shoulder. And she stays extremely still because she doesn't want to wake him up since she herself is finding sleep elusive. So she entertains herself by looking around their living room at the decorations they spent the evening working on.

The noble Fraser Fur in the corner, glass ornaments in a rainbow of colors hang suspended in the branches. And there are several curios mingling amongst the traditional orbs, blown glass in the shapes of Nativity scenes and Stars of David. A dreidel, a football, and, of course, several pinecones nestled amongst a tangle of blinking lights, every miniature bulb a different color, painting a stained glass impression across the carpet. Mistletoe is strung from every doorway and though she cannot see it from where she sits, she knows there is a pewter menorah placed reverently in the center of the kitchen table. A little bit of him and a little bit of her, sprinkled all around their apartment, a warm glowing cocoon amidst nine inches of white snow piled against the window panes.

A little bit of him and a little bit of her, nestled safely underneath her navel, warm and thriving and growing, glowing with love of people so very anxious to meet her.

She's always understood the concept of Christmas and silent night and home for the holidays.

And now she's finally getting to experience it.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I'm back from hiatus and we are very very close here to the end!**

**DISCLAIMER: Meh.**

Close

_Week 40, December_

"Hey," he calls, emerging from the hallway and into the living room. She's lying on her side, stretched across the couch, shroud in a fleece OSU blanket. Her hair is loose around her face and her eyes are bright and amused as he enters her line of sight.

"Hey," she returns, suppressing a yawn as she takes him in. His hair is still damp from his shower, all tousled and dripping. His skin is flushed and he's wearing a worn navy pullover, flannel pajama pants, and a soft expression. Snaking his hands under her calves, he picks her legs up and sits down, reoccupying the space he vacated at the end of the couch before lowering her feet back onto his lap. "You're a couch hog," he informs her after they've both been settled.

She blinks at him, "I thought it was a couch potato."

"It is."

"You said couch hog," she points out innocently and he rolls his eyes.

"Never mind. How ya doing?" And he is the master at changing subjects –and avoiding a lengthy explanation between varying idioms involving the word 'couch'.

She narrows her eyes slightly and then abandons her previous resolve to pursue her search for clarification because, frankly, she's exhausted. She offers him a minute shrug, "I am tired. But, there is light at the end of the tunnel, yes?"

He nods, "Yes. You're already at what? Two, three centimeters?" And he's referring to the information gleaned from their visit with Dr. Rush earlier that afternoon where quick examination revealed that Ziva's discomfort is proving to have progressive effects leading up to labor.

"Three," she says now nodding in confirmation. "And I only have seven more to go," she adds drily with a smirk and he pats her leg reassuringly. "You'll make it, Ziva."

"Oh, I know I'll make it," and there is that determined glint entering into her dark eyes, lighting up a tired gaze. "Not making it is not an option." And she's a fighter to the core, just as she's always been, just as she was bred to be. A fighter and a survivor and a mother. And she's been through so much these last nine months, these last twenty-some years. The thought hits him and he realizes that she simply amazes him.

They lapse into silence save from the dialogue emanating from the television where some such drama tries to accurately depict reality. Two commercial breaks and Ziva's eyes have slipped closed when Tony wonders aloud, "How'd you paint your nails?"

She cracks open one eye and regards him curiously as he studies her feet and the iridescent red polish lacquered across her toenails. "I didn't," she tells him, "Abby did –she came over for lunch the other day –what are you doing?" And she twitches, both eyes now open and glaring at him.

"I'm massaging your feet," he informs her, pressing his thumbs into the pad of her right foot, kneading up and down sole slowly.

"Don't you dare tickle me, Anthony DiNozzo," she warns, fingers materializing from the folds of her blanket to trace random patterns on her stomach. Truth be told, his ministrations feel phenomenal on her poor abused feet. Her ankles are swollen and her lower limbs ach almost constantly and Tony's fingers seem to be working some magic relief.

He's enjoying watching her face as her eyes close and she hums, thoroughly contented. And it's almost funny that he would be sitting on a couch in December rubbing his partner's sore and swollen feet because she's pregnant with his baby and he loves them both so very much . . . .

"DiNozzo," Ziva growls in warning though her laughing eyes contradict this chastisement. And he bit his lower lip to curb his laughter since he couldn't help but run a fingertip down the arch of her foot, a spot that he knows to be one of her most sensitive.

He loves her.

* * *

"Dare I ask what you are smirking at?" she wonders, flicking the bathroom light out and padding across the room to the bed, her footsteps muffled against the carpet, navigating around the white bassinet that waits patiently at her bedside.

"You're waddling, babe," and he sounds so pleased by this.

Ziva rolls her eyes, pulling back the covers and climbing into bed. "I am carrying around thirty plus extra pounds, Tony."

"But you wear it so well."

She snorts, easing herself down so that she is resting on her left side, facing him. "Seriously, Ziva," he says and it's obvious he is being genuine, "pregnancy suits you."

Her face twists up in a smile, her hand splaying across her stomach. "I have enjoyed more than I thought I would," she confesses and then her smile broadens and she beckons to him, "I want to try something."

He looks at her with amusement, a familiar smirk toying with features. "You know me, I love experimenting." And she doesn't bother informing him that it is not that kind of experiment.

"Lay your head here," she directs and he does as she says, maneuvering so that his ear is pressed over her navel. "Now listen." And it really isn't necessary to give that command because he already is. And a steady thumping echoes inside his head, filling up his mind with sounds of life.

"That's not your heartbeat, is it?" And he knows it isn't.

And pregnancy, she supposes, does suit her. And love and family have embraced her as well, wrapping her warmly in a safe cocoon with Charlie and Tony and her and it is all so very perfect.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: :^) **

**DISCLAIMER: Yep.**

And . . . . Action!

_41 weeks, December 19_

"How's Ziva?" It's become the customary exchange of greetings from McGee the moment Tony steps foot off the elevator every morning since her leave.

The older man shakes his head, suppressing a grin as he shucks his heavy woolen coat and brushes the remnants of snow out of his hair. "Three days past her due date and still the most patient I've ever seen her."

"Contractions?"

"On and off. Nothing exceeding, like, half an hour, I think," Tony's now slapping his computer to life, the monitor slowly booting itself to a functioning status. It's funny, he muses, how attune to Ziva everyone is despite her absence, how concerned for both her and Charlie they all are. It's like a family –one big, unorthodox, dysfunctional family.

Gibbs materializes seemingly from the air, breezing into the bullpen, omnipresent Styrofoam cup in one hand, manila file in the other. He inclines his head to both men, a curt nod, before sinking into the chair behind his respective chair with a swift exhale.

"We have a case, Boss?" McGee wonders, hazel eyes glancing briefly at the innocuous file on Gibbs' desktop.

Gibbs' opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ringing of a phone interrupts the premature words. Cool blue eyes flick over to Tony, one silver eyebrow cocked in the universal, _You gonna get that?_ And in an answer to the unspoken prompt, Tony picks up the phone from its cradle, nestling the receiver against his ear: "Anthony DiNoz-" Green eyes widen slightly and there's a pause as whomever is calling relays something significant. A few heartbeats later and Tony either regains the ability to speak or the conversation is finally permitting him to do so, "Okay. I gotcha. . . . . Ten minutes. Ciao." And the phone is returned to its bed.

Tony takes a breath, his eyes meeting both Gibbs' and McGee's in turn. "Well," he says, "Ziva says she's in labor."

McGee's eyes are huge in his head, wide and awestruck and, though he will later deny it, slightly overwhelmed. Because they –the MCRT- have been tasked with the most gruesome, the most difficult, the most trying cases . . . . They've taken down terrorists and dirtbags and steroid-hyped marines three times the size of a normal man . . . . They've been shot at, taken hostage, blown up, beaten, and slapped into the next millennia several times . . . . International crises? No problem. Threat to national security? Been there, done that. Infiltrate the CIA, FBI, and virtually any local database? Easy as breathing. . . . . However, never has a situation of this nature arisen, never before have they –Gibbs excluded- even begun to navigate the uncharted waters they suddenly found themselves treading. Because birthing a baby? Yeah, well, McGee's fairly certain there is nothing, no subscript or footnote, in the handbook, nor is there a seminar administered during training –there isn't even a Rule, as far as he knows- regarding such a circumstance-

Gibbs clears his throat and the vacant staring has apparently gone on long enough because he says, rather impatiently, "DiNozzo!"

"Boss?"

"What're you doing?"

To be frank he's just sitting there.

"Get your ass up and go," and Gibbs tosses a thumb toward the elevator in indication for Tony to move.

DiNozzo shakes his head, snapping out of his trance, and scrambles to his feet, assembling his coat and bag and various other things he obviously feels will necessitate in his rapidly approaching role. "I'm gone," he announces and in several blinks, he is.

McGee looks to his boss, asking confusedly, "Did we have a case?" And Gibbs doesn't bother to correct the past tense phrasing.

Instead, he just smirks, mirroring DiNozzo's previous actions of gathering his own belongings. "Not anymore, McGee."

_We've got a baby. _


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Lots of Papa Gibbs and McGee being McGee. And Tiva, of course. So without further ado, here it is. Much love and peace, Kit. **

**P.S. I have never been pregnant and have never had a baby (duh, because I've never been pregnant). So I hope it's relatively accurate considering I have no firsthand experience. . . . . I don't even have a driver's license yet, people.**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm sorry, but if the first twenty disclaimers haven't given you a clue, there is little else that I can do to further clarify this sad truth (not the sad truth that you can't figure it out, but the sad truth that I own nothing -and if you were shocked by that declaration of my lack of ownership, shame on you.)**

Special Delivery

_December 19_

The ride to Bethesda is uneventful, with Ziva calm and collected in the passenger seat and Tony relatively composed behind the steering wheel. She is already well aware of the timing between the labor pains, informing him that one would hit her every six minutes –still he found it difficult not to time the contractions himself while in transit. She grips the armrest tighter, knuckles whitening, face twisted into a grimace, though she remains utterly silent with her lips pursed defiantly and he knows. And if it is even possible, which apparently it was, their entire situation becomes even more genuine. They're having a baby.

Today.

* * *

The room is large, pale green walls and polished tile floors. Ziva's sitting with her back propped up against pillows, her hair tied back neatly at her nape, laughing softly at Tony, who is succeeding at occupying her mind from the pain. There's a rap at the door and the couple sober up as a young woman pokes her head around the door.

"Hi," she says, stepping into the room, offering a friendly wave. "My name is Dr. Isabel Jenson, I'm an associate of Dr. Rush's. She had an emergency she had to attend to and I was asked to fill in. Ziva David, I assume?" And Ziva nods, and suddenly takes a sharp inhale, hand coming up to support her lower belly. Dr. Jenson's lips twitch empathetically, "Nice strong contraction, huh?"

"Five minutes apart," Tony adds helpfully.

Dr. Jenson nods, moving about the room, procuring gloves after scrubbing her hands thoroughly. "Let's see how you're progressing."

Five minutes later and the final verdict is announced, "You're dilated to four centimeters, which isn't half bad. I can administer an epidural once you get to six, so you're over halfway there as far as pain relief is concerned-"

"I have had worse," Ziva says, her fingers absently dancing across her swollen stomach.

The doctor takes this statement in stride, not the least bit surprised. After all, Harper had warned her during their brief conversation earlier that this patient was not the average first-time mom. There was something in the file too about this woman being a fed . . . . Dr. Jenson settles for, "You're in for a long day, I'm not gonna lie. You are allowed to ask for the drugs at anytime."

Ziva nods again in a truce, "Do not say never, yes?" And at Dr. Jenson's confused expression, Tony clarifies, "Never say never." And the good doctor blinks.

"Urm, yes. Well then. I will check up on you again in the next hour, Nurse Sara says that the fetal monitor showed nothing abnormal and the baby's doing fine. Heart rate's good, a hundred percent effacement, strong contractions. If you want, you can get up and walk the halls –some women say it helps," she is already in the doorway as she says this, her pager suddenly screeching and her calm manner as she clicks the device off. With a brief wave and a shy grin, she disappears in a blur of white lab coat.

It's silent for a moment before Tony says casually, "Well she's definitely a bit odd."

Ziva glances over at him, her eyes straying from the now empty threshold, "The walking sounds like a good idea," and he takes this as his cue to help her swing her legs over the edge of the bed and arrange her in a standing position.

"You good?" he asks doubtfully as she sways slightly before regaining her balance. And she nods, taking a tentative step forward and announcing, "I am good."

He lets her get halfway across the room before saying, "You know what else is good? The view." And her hand comes back seemingly on reflex, snatching at the hospital gown, closing its yawning gap. Her head snaps around so she's glaring at him over her shoulder, a harsh quip poised on her tongue, waiting. But then the hardness in her eyes softens because he's standing behind her, holding up her terrycloth housecoat with a lopsided smirk.

* * *

A kindly matron at the nurses' station provides McGee with directions to Room 621, the birthing suite assigned to a Ms. Ziva David. And he finds the location easily, the room itself is vacant.

It's obvious that they've been here though; that's DiNozzo's suit jacket draped casually over a chair in the corner and he can see Ziva's coat peeking out from underneath. And the duffel bag under the window is, of all things, department issue and its presence leaves McGee wondering idly if using such equipment outside of work is permitted. And then he wonders why he cares. Deciding that it isn't and he doesn't, he is now left with the most pressing question to arise yet: Where are Tony and Ziva?

A low, excruciating moan comes from the adjoining room followed by an enthusiastic, "Push!" which is ensued by a woman screaming. Startled to the point where he nearly loses his balance, McGee rations that since neither of his coworkers appear to be present, he should probably go look for them –preferably out of earshot from the laboring woman next door. . . .

* * *

McGee finds them a little ways down another corridor –a silent one, thankfully- and he can't help but think that they shouldn't have been that hard to find. Ziva's bent forward slightly, hands gripping DiNozzo's shoulders, forehead resting against his chest. But he's got his arms at his sides and McGee figures she must not want to be touched at the moment, though green eyes watch the top of her head vigilantly. And there are no primal noises escaping her, no mentionings of death threats or remarks involving castration, bodily harm, methods of a slow torture. She's breathing, obviously, her back rising and falling visibly through the housecoat shrouding her shoulders, but from his vantage point, that seems to be the only indication of her current state. He hears her sigh, watches as Tony's arms come up to encircle her, his hands rubbing her lower back carefully. Ziva rolls her neck to the side, working out what must be tension, and Tony glances up to spot McGee several feet away, standing awkwardly as if intruding on a very intimate moment.

"McGee," Tony acknowledges, inclining his head in the younger man's direction and Ziva turns around in Tony's loosened embrace, greeting McGee with a small smile.

McGee reciprocates, taking a step forward, debating rather or not he should ask if she's okay. Ziva, however, either senses his dilemma or reads minds because she blinks and wonders, "How long have you been standing there?"

"Two minutes, maybe three," and he nods in what he hopes is nonchalance.

Tony watches this bobble-head act for an amused moment before saying, "Well, you missed the majority of the fun, but stick around and in about three minutes we'll have a repeat performance."

Ziva narrows her eyes, looking at her partner, "I am with child, Tony, not some . . . . some . . . . the thing at those roadside fairs with the bearded ladies and two headed things," and now she's rolling her hand, gesturing her lapse of thought.

Tony quirks an eyebrow, utterly at loss, "Uh, midway? Exhibit? Side-"

"Sideways show, yes –mnh," and her elation at the elusive phrase is robbed of its glory as another contraction wreaks havoc on her body. Her hand instinctively goes to her belly and her eyes slip closed, her breathing slowing to a deliberate in and out. Tony watches her, not even bothering to glance at his watch, before his eyes drift to McGee, hazel eyes wide and clearly he's out of his element. Less than a minute and Ziva sighs, eyes fluttering open, slight frown etching her features. "Perhaps that is enough of the walking." And Tony nods and addresses McGee, "You just checking in or what?"

"Just checking in –Oh, no, wait, Abby wanted me to ask if there was anything you guys needed, clothes, baby stuff, groceries, anything."

"Tell Abby thank you, but I think we are good," Ziva says, smile creeping across her face. "Tony?" And he nods another conformation.

McGee's phone vibrates in his pocket, sparing him from whatever comes next, and he excuses himself politely.

As he raises the phone to his ear, he hears Tony tell Ziva, "Let's get you in bed." And he knows for a fact without even turning around that Tony only yelped because Ziva most likely swatted him.

* * *

"How ya holding up, DiNozzo?" Gibbs enters the darkened room quietly, eyes focusing on his senior agent lounging back in a chair.

Tony's abandoned his tie and one of his shirttails is untucked, his hair slightly mussed up where he's been running his fingers through it. He looks good, Gibbs thinks, considering he's most likely borderline a panic attack. And then he thinks how unfair that thought is because Tony is stronger than that. Of course, the younger man is also hell bent on being there for his partner . . . .

Green eyes flicker upwards and meet blue. "Hey, Boss," he greets smoothly, stifling a yawn. It's nine o'clock and dark outside and Ziva was admitted at eight that morning.

Gibbs smirks, eyes wandering over to the bed where Ziva's napping, slightly curled on her left side. Abby had braided her hair earlier, the neat coil now draped along the stark white pillow case her head rests on. Her fingers are gripping the railing along the side of the bed, the thin cotton of the hospital gown covering her shoulder, the thin plastic bracelet encircling her wrist standing out against the gold of her skin.

"She's tired," he states, inclining his silver head at her dozing figure and Tony's lips twitch upward.

"Yeah. She's at seven centimeters an hour ago. They gave her an epidural shot to ease the pain so she could rest. And here we are now," the summary is quick, brief, and it's obvious that the non-apparent stress is breaking through his façade. But he's still grinning that patent grin of his like some moronic Cheshire.

"You need coffee." And Tony can't quite tell if this is an observation, a question, or an order.

"I'm good, Boss-"

"Go." And Ziva's awake, one dark eye open, regarding him lazily. "Go," she repeats. "I promise I will not deliver the baby while you're gone."

Tony sighs and Gibbs wonders if this conversation is not a replicate of a previous exchange. "I'm no leaving you alone," he argues gently, voice still quiet even though everyone in the room is awake.

She rolls her eyes, shifting so that she is looking at Gibbs now, her support in this little debate. "I will not be alone, Tony."

Gibbs nods, "She's right, DiNozzo. I'll stay with her. You go get coffee, walk around, get fresh air."

"Go," Ziva reiterates, jerking her chin toward the door. Tony reluctantly stands, sighing theatrically. "Fine," he relents. "Just, don't do anything major without me, alright?"

"I will try to slow this rapidly proceeding process, Tony," Ziva reassures drily and DiNozzo finally takes his leave.

"He being a pain in the ass?"

Ziva smirks, sitting up a bit, "He's always a pain in the ass . . . . He is a good man, Gibbs. He is so worried he is going to miss something." She sighs wistfully, shaking her head.

"He loves you."

"I know," and she's rubbing her stomach absently. And since Gibbs has been investigating for nearly twenty years, he's familiar with evidence and the truth it unyieldingly contains, a fortification that verifies words that could be a blatant lie or utter veracity. And therefore he can tell when people are deceptive or when they are candid . . . . It is the truth, he knows, that she knows. Because he's seen the way they watch each other, his two agents, and he's seen how they are together and apart.

And the evidence is right there underneath Ziva's palm, living proof of love and what love can make.

They grow quiet for a short period before Ziva inhales sharply, discomfort palpable.

He knows she's got to be tired of hearing this, but asks anyway, "You okay?" She doesn't reply for a few more seconds, releasing a heavy breath, "Contraction. The medication wore off an hour or so ago."

"Do I need to call a nurse?"

"No," and this is said so calmly that he doesn't insist.

She explains, "I got my supernap. I am fine."

And he nods slowly, easing back in the chair DiNozzo vacated and he reoccupied.

Three minutes later, and yes, he did time it, she lets a low hiss escape her, leaning forward slightly. And suddenly memories from a lifetime ago find their way to the front of his mind and before he even registers it, he's sitting on the edge of her bed, offering her his hand. "Look at me, Ziver. At me," Gibbs' voice is soft yet commanding and she obeys, concentrating on his familiar countenance. "Breathe. Breathe. Good girl." Her eyes regain focus and she blinks at him.

"Toda," it's a grateful utterance.

There's a knock on the door and the nice RN enters with a clipboard and Tony in tow. Gibbs inclines his head in greeting, patting Ziva's thigh and ducking back out of the room, imparting a headslap to DiNozzo as he passes.

* * *

Abby's cheek is pressed against McGee shoulder and she is actively ignoring the armrest that is cutting into her ribs. McGee's asleep, snoring softly, his face more or less buried in her hair. And it is true that they would've been more comfortable had they stayed at McGee's apartment, but when Abby called Tony three hours earlier and was informed that Ziva was close, the Goth insisted that they keep up a vigil at the hospital. Abby had to be present, afterall, because she was the official doting aunt. McGee had to be present, if only, to keep the doting aunt under control.

Gibbs has managed to doze off, sitting upright in the molded plastic chair, omnipresent Styrofoam cup still held in his hand. His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls rhythmically, but he doesn't quite look like he's in a deep sleep. It's more of a meditative appearance.

A meditative appearance that is broken when the door opens and Tony's face peers out from the depths of the room. Gibbs is suddenly awake because the younger man's eyes are wide and excitement is emanating off him in waves. "It's time," he announces and Abby rockets to her feet and jostling poor McGee, who steadies himself after nearly toppling out of the chair.

_It's time._

* * *

Sweat glistens on her forehead, trickling down her neck, plastering a stray strand of hair to her cheek. Her face is flushed, eyes squinted shut as she focuses all her remaining energy, every last dreg of her deteriorating strength, at this final task . . . .

"Okay, Ziva. Take a minute, breathe," Dr. Rush coaches from the foot of the bed, her words muffled behind the gauze mask embracing her mouth and nose. She returned around eight to both Tony's and Ziva's –and debatably Dr. Jenson's- relief.

Ziva relaxes back against the pillows, panting, her chest rising and falling with each gasping breath. Tony strokes back the errant lock of hair, dabbing a damp cloth over her temple. "You're doing great," he murmurs, as if he'd recognize the difference. She can only nod and grin feebly before another tide of pain crashes over her.

Her grip on his forearm tightens and he knows that she is in agony, her knuckles turning white around his wrist and despite her weakened state, he wouldn't be surprised if he bruised. And then he realizes that she may be trying to not break his bones, but grasping his arm is not offering her any comfort whatsoever. So he risks losing all function of his fingers and potentially subjecting permanent damage to vital ligaments by shifting her hold so that she's actually squeezing his hand as opposed to his forearm. He wishes he could do more.

"Push . . . . Come on, Ziva, good girl," Dr. Rush coaxes, ". . . . Fantastic . . . . Okay, baby's crowning. Tony? You wanna see?" And if she wasn't trying to deliver an infant, Harper Rush believes she would be on the floor laughing because the expression on the man's face, with his eyebrows encroaching upon his hairline and his eyes resembling the circumference of dinner plates. He gives a quick shake of his head, opting to remain with his partner. "Alright, Ziva, ease up. Here's the head."

And Tony thinks his heart could very well stop now and Ziva takes a final deep breath.

"One more big push, Mom . . . ."

It's more of a mewing sound than an actual cry, though it does rise in volume quite rapidly.

"Here she is! Your baby girl!" And the doctor is beaming as she displays the squirming infant and Ziva collapses back onto the cushions once more, moisture leaking out from under her closed eyelids. Tony leans forward, lips brushing hers lightly. "I love you," he murmurs. "I love you." And she offers him a tired grin as a nurse calls, "Dad, you want to cut the cord?" And the smile that crosses his face is unprecedented.

Several heartbeats and another nurse appears in Ziva's line of sight, a pale pink blanket cradled expertly in her arms. "This," she says softly, "belongs to you. Congratulations." And the bundle is placed reverently on Ziva's chest, her arms coming up to frame the tiny infant.

The baby's eyes are screwed shut and her mouth is moving silently, a miniature tongue flickering in and out as she yawns. Her skin is a healthy pink beneath the cloudy remnants of her previous dwelling place and a dark swath of fuzz peeks out from beneath the little cap the nurses have covered her head with. Ziva raises her hand, the baby's breath warm against her palm, and extending a finger, strokes the infant's cheek delicately. Two blue eyes peer unfocused up at her and she finds that more tears are trekking down her face.

"Hi, baby," she whispers, smiling, "Hi sweet, sweet angel. You're daddy and I have been waiting for you."

"She's perfect," and Tony's voice is at her ear as he gazes down at both of them. And Ziva's trembling slightly from exhaustion, her skin damp and hair a messy halo escaping her braid, but she's never looked prettier. And the baby's eyes have closed again and she seems to be sleeping and she is absolutely perfect.

It is all absolutely perfect.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Sorry guys, not rid of me yet! There's still at least one more chapter/epilogue/update/thingamajig to come so stay tuned. I apologize for the skipped update last night, but I was only half-finished with this and had to make sure that it was up to par (Let me know?). Anyway, I love you all and leave you with fuzzies and more Papa Gibbs (and Tony's interaction with Charlie!) Much love and keep the peace until we meet again, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: There'll be another one tomorrow so you might as well wait and read it.**

Charlie Grace

_Late/early, December 19th/20th_

The door across the hall yawns open slowly at the exact moment Abby paces by. And she freezes midstride before whirling around and launching herself at the newest arrival.

"Tony!" And she stage whispers this because they are still in a hospital and it is dark outside and people are sleeping. Gibbs clears his throat and the Goth detaches herself from her friend, stepping back beside McGee, now fully awake and upright the moment DiNozzo made his appearance.

And Tony's smiling his patent smile, eyes bright and excited, positively radiant. "She's here," he announces and McGee clamps a hand around Abby's mouth, her elated squeals muffled against his palm. "And she's perfect," and this is the proudest Gibbs has ever seen his senior agent.

"Ziva?"

"Is doing great. She was absolutely amazing in there," Tony's voice holds a reverence as he relays the status on his partner. "She's exhausted, but great. The nurses are cleaning up her and the baby now and she wanted me to tell you that as soon as she's resettled she'd like to see you, all of you. Though, uh, Boss, she also said that you could go in now. If you wanted, I mean." And Gibbs nods once, moving toward the door. McGee loses his hold on Abby and she practically flies at Tony, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a loud kiss on his cheek. And Gibbs just shakes his head, pulling open the door and stepping inside.

* * *

Ziva's still propped up on the bed, sheets twisted up around her midsection. Her hair has been scraped back into a wild ponytail and her gown is untied at the neck exposing smooth, gold skin. Her arms are encircling a pale pink blanket, wrapping protectively around the infant swaddled within the fabric and resting on her chest. Dark eyes are focused intently downward, only flickering up to meet a gentle blue gaze when he is literally standing at her bedside.

"Hello, Gibbs," she says softly, offering him a warm smile.

"Ziva," he returns, her expression reciprocated across his own countenance. His eyes glance briefly at the nursing baby. "Who do we have here?"

Her own gaze returns back down to the baby, tiny eyes closed, half asleep. "This," she says affectionately, "is Charlie. Charlie Grace DiNozzo."

"DiNozzo?"

And Ziva nods, murmuring, "It seems safer that way."

Gibbs now bobs his head in complete understanding. "She is beautiful, Ziver."

"She is."

He leans down and presses a kiss to his daughter's temple, fingers brushing Charlie's back as he pulls away. "I'm proud of you," he tells her and she smiles, humming, her eyes slipping closed.

And he is so very proud.

* * *

Abby brings two dozen roses that she apparently conjured from thin air, setting the crystal vase on the windowsill near Ziva's bed. And the Israeli is impressed that the Goth included not only her signature ebony buds, but also pink blooms strategically intermingled. She manages to hug Ziva even though the younger woman is practically immobile against the pillows. McGee, too, entered the room bearing a gift, a gilded silver picture frame with a 'Welcome Charlie' sentiment occupying the glass. ("Until you guys can get a family picture or something to put in it.") McGee kisses Ziva's cheek, murmuring his congratulations and Ducky sends baby Charlie a bright pink rubber duck via Gibbs, who currently stands like a sentinel at the door, blue eyes studying the little scene unfolding around him.

Abby's sitting in Tony's chair, gingerly cradling a pale pink bundle, her green eyes alight with a wonder and awe that contradicts the Jack Skellington t-shirt and spiky suspenders she's sporting. Tony's hovering a little behind the Goth's shoulder, green eyes never leaving the baby and it's apparent that his fatherly instinct is all ready in full gear.

McGee perches on the edge of Ziva's bed, smiles on both their faces as Abby says conversationally, "You guys make pretty babies." And Ziva's low laughter swirls in the quiet and DiNozzo simply beams.

One big, dysfunctional, unorthodox family, Gibbs muses watching them. And then he glances at his watch and clears his throat pointedly, Tony taking Charlie from Abby with a careful ease that has the retired Marine impressed. McGee and Abby convey their hundredth round of well wishes before departing together and he makes to follow their retreat when a soft voice calls, "Wait."

And he turns around to see Tony still standing near the chair, his daughter in his arms, and the older man quirks a silver eyebrow in acknowledgement of his delayment. And Tony approaches him slowly, saying, "You didn't get a chance to hold her." And Gibbs' mind barely catches up with his body as he accepts the baby, cradling her with both arms, supporting her head instinctively.

She looks more like Ziva, he thinks as he stares down at the little face, the same general bone structure, more of a golden tint to her skin as well. But there are features that are distinctly DiNozzo, especially around the mouth –the kid will have a killer smile at the very least. A killer smile and the best parents she could ever ask for.

"So," Tony whispers, watching his boss rock Charlie expertly, "Any fatherly advice you want to impart upon me? I'm open to any and all suggestions, honestly." And green eyes are earnest and expectant and serious despite the nonchalant attitude coloring the words.

Gibbs' lips twitch up at the edges as he studies the baby and processes the younger man's question. And truth be told, he's been pondering what to tell the kid since that day in the hospital. Because Leroy Jethro Gibbs may have been denied his family prematurely, but he did have eight blessed years of fatherhood. Eight blessed years and so many lessons learned by trial and error, tears and laughs. He takes a deep breath, conjuring up the list he'd made in his head. And then he glances at Ziva, fast asleep in the hospital bed, face serene and untroubled, before meeting Tony's eyes. "Admit when she's right, apologize when you're wrong. Don't go to bed angry; talk to each other and listen to what she has to say. Trust your instincts, both your instincts. Get home at a reasonable time, call if you're gonna be late. Try not to yell, but don't shy away from an argument . . . . Spend time together and apart and enjoy your daughter . . . . Don't sweat the little stuff. Carry your weight and learn to read her mind –and I honestly mean it . . . . And trust each other because she is still your partner. Be honest," he takes another breath, eyes flickering down to Charlie then back her dad, continuing softer, "And every time you don your badge you better kiss them and tell them how much you love them." _Because you don't get second chance_. And then there's a pause as Gibbs runs through the mental catalogue of things that needed to be said at this moment . . . . Satisfied, he gives Tony a curt nod and brief smile.

DiNozzo doesn't speak at first, he just nods, gazing at his daughter, absorbing. Then, after a few heartbeats, says lightly, "I think this is the most you've ever said to me, Boss."

Gibbs smirks, raising his eyebrows and Tony continues with a grateful, "Thanks."

No more words are spoken as Gibbs returns Charlie to the capable arms her father, the older man memorizing the sight of Tony with a baby who shares his last name. Another smile frequents his face as he turns to go and let the little family rest. At the door, however, Gibbs looks over his shoulder a final time at Tony, standing exactly where he'd left him.

"And DiNozzo?" The new dad looks up and blinks, surprised his boss is still there. And perhaps what is one of Gibbs most valuable acumens is bequeathed upon Tony once again: "Never take what you have for granted."

_And it's the kind of advice a father gives his son._


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Yes, yes, there is at least one more chapter. Goodness, I'm never gonna get this done, huh? But something tells me there won't be many complaints :^) So here's your daily dose of Tiva-fluff. Enjoy, Kit.**

**P.S. Happy 4th of July to my fellow Americans. And thank you to all the service men and women around the world that continue to protect our freedom . . . . Say a prayer for peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Might as well read tomorrow's.**

It Had To Be You

_2:13 A.M., December 20th_

He watches as she leans up and over to gently lift the fussing baby from its bassinet. With an expertise she honed within five minutes so many hours ago, she unbuttons her shirt, situating Charlie against her chest. The crying stops and Ziva's eyes close briefly as the baby nurses quietly.

"Tony," she says plainly, eyes still shut, but obviously awake. And it isn't a question, just his name, an invitation for him to fill the silence.

Which he does. "It almost doesn't seem real, you know?"

"I do," she agrees with a sigh, cracking one eyelid up to peer at him curiously.

He grins at her, continuing, "I mean, of all the things I ever was and of all the things I never was . . . . I never thought I'd be here. In this moment with you and a baby, Ziva. You and me and a baby –our daughter . . . ." And she can't tell if he's speaking from exhaustion or merely sharing his thoughts.

"I understand," she says, both eyes closed again, "this is a life I never thought I'd have . . . . I was never meant to be a mother."

"I beg to differ," he disputes lightly, inclining his head toward her and Charlie. "You're breastfeeding."

"And I am aware of that," she says. Charlie makes a mewling sound and Ziva shifts the baby against her shoulder, simultaneously readjusting her shirt, patting the infant's back delicately. "I was not intended to be a nurturer or anything remotely maternal. I was bred to be the opposite . . . ." And he hears what she doesn't say, that her purpose was to take life, not create it.

"You're a wonderful mom, Ziva."

She grins, "I know. And you are a wonderful dad, Tony."

"Oh, I'm not worried," he tells her. "You and Gibbs'll see to that. It's just . . . . having a kid . . . . that thought used to freak me out." The past tense of their conversation is not lost on either of them. Then, "It's you."

"What's me?"

"You. You're the reason I can do this –anyone else, I don't think I could have a kid with anyone else."

Her grin broadens, but her face turns pensive. "Oh, you would've done it, if a woman showed up pregnant with your baby. You're a good person, Tony, you wouldn't be able to leave knowing your child was out there."

And he nods, "This is probably true . . . . But, that being said, I'm glad it's you."

A wicked smile flickers across her countenance, "I am glad it is me too, Tony. I like being you're, ah, baby mama, yes?"

"I love you." And the 'yes' is conveyed in this statement as well. "Here," and he stands up, crosses to the edge of her bed, carefully extracting Charlie from her embrace. "You should sleep," he whispers, leaning down to touch his lips to hers, a kiss which she rather greedily accepts.

"I love you," she murmurs, smiling against his lips, pouting when he pulls away with a chuckle.

"For a woman who can barely keep her eyes open," he says, chuckling. "Sleep, Mama."

And she crinkles her nose at him, burrowing down in the blankets a nurse brought in earlier. He places Charlie back in her bassinet, tenderly stroking her cheek with his index finger. "I love you too," he whispers. "Hey, Ziva?"

"Hm."

"You still awake?"

"No."

He grins, "Good. Now scootch over." And she does shift slightly, allows him to tuck his larger frame in next to hers in the narrow hospital bed. And this arrangement only works if he lays on his side, wrapping himself around her, his right arm tucking under her head, his left arm draping over her waist gently.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: I know you guys aren't going to be happy, but this story doesn't appear to be getting wrapped up any time soon, so I'm afraid it'll be a little bit longer than previously perceived. No complaining okay? :^) I love you all, keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Put the lime in the coconut and shake it all up and I still won't own anything but a shaken up coconut full of lime.**

Homecoming

_December 20th, later afternoon_

The exit from Bethesda is, to put lightly, a mild production with Charlie featuring as the main appeal.

"Ani yoda'at, ani yoda'at, tatelah."

Her back is to him as she leans over the bed, murmuring to the whimpering infant laid atop the mattress. The outside temperature is a bracing eighteen degrees, accompanied by ten inches of fresh snow that blankets virtually everything on the other side of the window. It's departure day after twenty-eight hours in the hospital and both Ziva and Charlie have been cleared to go home, which has lead to Ziva's intense preparation for the baby's first venture out into the elements –though her exposure time will not exceed but two minutes tops.

He watches amusedly from the doorway, taking in his partner's sweat-clad backside, the familiar curve of her waist as she bends over the infant, softly soothing Charlie's discontented protests.

"Beehlet? Ma ata o'mer?"

"What is she saying?" And Tony nearly jumps out of his skin as a nurse appears behind him, peering over his shoulder and into the room.

He recomposes himself, turning to face the matron. "I honestly don't know," he confesses, "I can only understand basic stuff like 'hello' and 'good night,'" and the curse words that are sometimes uttered, but he doesn't tell her that. "It's Hebrew," he explains as the nurse makes to ask another question. "At least, I'm ninety percent sure it is." The RN smiles, gesturing to the wheelchair she brought up before walking down the hall.

And he takes a purposeful step into the room, clearing his throat.

"Hey, you about ready?"

"Mm-hm," Ziva purrs, gingerly lifting the six pounds, six ounces of infant from the bed, carefully laying her down in the car seat that Tony brought up earlier. Nimble fingers buckle the baby in, and with a flourish, Ziva utters a soft, "There." And it truly is amazing, he thinks, how quickly she's mastered the whole mothering thing. Charlie dons a leopard-print bunting, the little fleece suit purchased by Ziva what seems like a lifetime ago. One of the nuns' knit blankets is draped over Charlie's lap, the pale rose color mirroring the crocheted cap nestled over her head beneath the hood of her suit. When Ziva smiles down at her, Charlie's grey-blue eyes focus on her mother and her little mouth seems to twitch upwards slightly.

Tony is absolutely smitten.

"We are ready," Ziva announces, turning to him, cocking her head at the lopsided grin occupying her partner's countenance. When she sees what occupies the space behind him, however, her own smile slips. "Please tell me you are kidding, Tony."

And he honestly wishes he were, but alas he isn't. She eyes the wheelchair suspiciously as if anticipating the thing to engage in a vendetta against her. He can tell by the way she's squared her shoulders, how her eyebrows have intruded upon her hairline, that she has no intention whatsoever of going quietly.

"It's a wheelchair, Ziva," he placates.

"I am aware of that."

"It isn't going to hurt you or bite you or offend you in any way."

"I am capable of walking out on my own."

"As I am aware of, but it's hospital policy or something like that. Please just do it so we can go home," and he's practically begging, which amuses her and therefore she acquiesces, sitting down gingerly.

"Sore?"

She snorts, sarcasm noted in her reply, "Not at all. . . ." And in hindsight that probably was a stupid question.

He gently lifts the baby carrier off the bed, settling the seat on Ziva's lap, watching as her fingers immediately gravitate to touch the baby. "We good?"

Ziva nods, "We are very very good."

And really they are.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: ;^)**

**DISCLAIMER: -insert here-**

Home

_December 20th_

WELCOME HOME CHARLIE!

Laughter immediately bubbles up from Ziva the moment she lays eyes on their front door and the neon fuchsia words proclaiming the baby's arrival. A large black poster is vying for center stage against a holiday wreath that doesn't stand a chance to Abby's elaborate artwork. And Tony chuckles, addressing Charlie, dozing again in her carrier, "Well, baby doll, you're official."

* * *

The bedside clock glows 7:58 in the dark room, the sound of the heating system tempered with quite snoring, a discordant duet wrought from sheer exhaustion and now-calmed excitement.

She sleeps on her back, a position she has been denied for the past several months, wide curls fanning across her pillow, across the mattress. The pungent odor of antiseptic has been replaced with the warm scent of cinnamon and honey that mingles with the clean smell of soap and Tony.

A soft mewling shatters the silence and Ziva is up and alert in less than a heartbeat, pulling back the covers and slipping out of the bed's warm embrace.

Charlie's face is scrunched up, eyes tightly closed, mouth a perfect 'o.' She's broken free of her blanket, arms flailing, tiny fingers fisted. Ziva murmurs softly to her, carefully extracting her from the bassinet, cradling the newborn expertly in her arms. Tony rouses and golden lamplight infiltrates the room as he watches idly through sleep-blurred eyes his partner climb back into bed, their wailing daughter in tow.

"Geez, Charlie," he says, stifling a yawn, captivated with the discontent infant. Ziva continues making quiet noises, wrestling with her shirt as the baby squirms. He notices her juggling act and, grinning apologetically for not cottoning on sooner, sits up straighter, motioning for her to relinquish the baby to him.

He's gentle, holding Charlie as if she were glass, utterly fragile, seemingly breakable, settling her into the crook of one arm while smoothing her blanket across the bed. He places her on her back, unfazed by the crying, skillfully swaddling the newborn, tucking the final corner behind Charlie with a satisfied whisper of, "Tada!" And Ziva smirks beside him, shaking her head.

How did she get so lucky?

He returns Charlie to her mother, slipping back down into the sheets, lying on his side and facing his girls. Ziva leans against the headboard, eyes slipping closed, a sigh escaping her lips as silence is reestablished in the apartment.

"She looks like you," he says after a minute of watching her and the baby. And it's true, Charlie has inherited Ziva's warm complexion, her graceful features, her dark hair. "Except for her smile –she's got the DiNozzo smile."

"And the appetite."

"She's beautiful . . . . You're beautiful." And she is, sitting there in the semidarkness of their bedroom, dark curls a messy halo around her head, tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Her face is clean and flushed from sleep and her t-shirt is crumpled, but really, he thinks she's never been prettier. And with Charlie –her baby, his baby- embraced against her chest . . . . "What's so funny?" he wonders when Ziva's low chuckling draws him from his reverie.

Liquid chocolate eyes regard him lazily through half-raised lids. "She fell asleep," she informs him, a small grin teasing her lips.

"Should you poke her or something?" And at Ziva's bemused expression, he clarifies, "I mean, is she done? Like, no longer hungry?"

Ziva offers him a one-shoulder shrug, studying Charlie amusedly. "Evidently. I suppose she will let us know when she is hungry later, yes?"

"I guess so."

"What time is it?"

"Eight twenty-four –we got a good three hour nap in though," he says, eyes closed, half asleep.

She nods, eyes still riveted on Charlie, before she mirrors his previous action of burrowing back down into the covers, tucking Charlie at her side.

He hears Ziva whisper, "I love you," and opens his eyes to find her looking at him.

"Right back at 'cha, sweet-cheeks."

And love abounds.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Three more chapters, I think, including the epilogue. **

**DISCLAIMER: Nada.**

Nechda

_December 23 _

"Who are the orchids from?" she wonders, stroking a fragile petal, enjoying the plant that sits innocently on the kitchen counter as she nurses a cup of tea.

Tony's voice floats in from the living room, "Uh, McGee said that Vance brought those down to the bullpen –he asked if McGee would make sure they got to you." He appears beside the counter, watching her regard the white flowers amusedly before setting down her mug.

"There is a note," and nimble fingers pluck up the little envelope that rests against the stalk. She opens it, pulling out a generic blank card filled with neat, printed script. It's her sharp inhale that alarms him.

"Ziva?" he asks worriedly, navigating around the counter, coming toward her. Her face is guarded and her eyes dark and a sick feeling is spreading in his belly. "What is it?" He glances over her shoulder after establishing that her face will reveal nothing as to what the note conveys and finds that foreign symbols occupy the white expanse.

Ziva's chocolate gaze slides back and forth as she reads silently, brow furrowed in concentration.

_Zivaleh,_

_You will not be pleased to hear from me, I am sure, but I will try nonetheless. Your director has informed me of the newest addition to your life as an American woman and I write to congratulate you. I suppose I should not be surprised that a third-party is having to tell me that I am now a grandfather and nor do I fault you for your silence. I am not writing to threaten you, I merely wish to welcome my granddaughter into the world. I pray both mother and child are healthy._

_I understand your hesitance and desire to keep the past where it is and I understand your instinct to keep your daughter away from her grandfather. However, she is still my granddaughter and I feel as though I must offer her something. There is a bank account that I have set up with money for her, use it as you wish. Vance has the information._

_Eli_

She reads it twice, incredulity slowly ebbing away with the adrenaline rush that erupted into her bloodstream at the sight of her father's penmanship. Taking a deep cleansing breath, she raises her gaze to meet Tony's worried green eyes that practically swim with questions. Quietly, she rereads him the letter, translating the written words of her native tongue. When she finishes she says softly, "I do not want her to know that life, Tony. I do not want her to know him . . . . I want her safe." And her voice catches on that last part as she blinks furiously, banishing the tears behind her eyelids. And rather the lump in her throat is attributed to raging hormones or wayward fathers, she doesn't quite know.

He takes the card from her hands, setting it on the counter before pulling her to his chest, wrapping her in his arms. She permits the embrace, resting her cheek on his chest, above his heart, composing herself. And after a pause, she breaks the spell, reaching for the abandoned envelope.

His brow knits together as she slides the necklace out into her palm, a familiar Star of David gleaming golden in her hand.

"Is that . . . . ?"

She shakes her head, studying the pendant, "No. It is not mine . . . . We were given these one Hanukah, I might have been nine. They were identical, the necklaces; gifts from our mother. I lost mine-" and he knows when and where even though she does not say "-This is Tali's. I-I put it in a box years ago, someone must have found it at the estate, the attic maybe. . . . ." Her voice trails off and her fingers close over her palm, engulfing the necklace. "I'm okay, Tony," she reassures him. "I promise. I think I just need to go lay down, yes?" And he kisses her forehead and watches her head toward their bedroom, the dread uncoiling in his chest and breath easing up once more.

Because Eli David will have to go through him and Gibbs and McGee and, well, the whole US Navy and Marine Corps if he thinks he's going to get to Ziva and Charlie.

He'll have to go through Ziva herself and, frankly, that's the more formidable of obstacles.

* * *

The nursery is dark and quiet and the crib vacant, the mobile spinning lazily as air is displaced when she nudges open the door. It makes her happy, this room, knowing that it will be filled with laughs and baby noises, sleeping angels and sweet dreams.

She pads across the carpet, approaching the crib and regarding it momentarily before gingerly weaving the chain around the mobile, allowing the Star to hang amongst the company of a fox, a bat, a dog, and an owl. With a satisfied nod, she turns to leave the nursery, but notices that someone else has added to the room. It's McGee's silver frame standing proudly atop the bureau. And the 'Welcome Charlie' sentiment has been replaced by the infamous photo that served as a souvenir from Paris and is what she knows to be one of Tony's personal favorites from his collection of impromptu shots.

It makes her smile.

* * *

The snow drifts down outside the window as she stands in their room, leaning over the bassinet. Gentle fingers travel across the soft skin of Charlie's cheek, mussing up the dark wisps atop the infant's head. The baby sighs in her sleep, tiny fingers clenching and relaxing, little chest rising and falling in steady breathes.

She shouldn't be so surprised that she would be willing to die for someone she just met.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Not entirely confident about this chapter, but I couldn't skip Christmas . . . . . On my laptop, this chapter is marked 'Our Forever Finale' and, well, it isn't. In fact, there is one more chapter and an epilogue coming. And two oneshots stemming from the story that will also be posted after that. So, let me know what you think if you want? Much love, keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Thanks . . . . . Management.**

It's A Wonderful Life

The lights are glittering, throwing rainbows across the carpet, blue and red and green and yellow, twinkling with an almost gemlike quality. . . . The proud Fraser Fir towers proudly in the corner, several brightly wrapped boxes resting under its wide boughs. It's silent with the snow piled outside the windows, pristine whiteness shining under the street light outside. And she finally thinks this surely must be the epitome of all clichés.

"Found it," he announces victoriously reentering her line of sight, elusive camcorder in tow. "We gotta document this, you know." And she rolls her chocolate eyes, adjusting the dozing infant cradled in her lap.

"Tony, you are not seriously going to film this, are you?" But she already knows the answer even before he indignantly, though patiently, explains, "It's Charlie's first Christmas, Ziva. Of course I am going to document this. It's an important milestone."

"She is not going to remember it."

"All the more reason to film it," he volleys back, triumphant. He fiddles with the device, face screwing up in concentration as he tries to open the little screen. Ziva bites her lip to conceal her grin, gently easing Charlie into her bouncy seat beside her on the couch.

"Let me see, Tony," and he passes her the camcorder on which she finds the correct button and presses down, the screen popping open. She returns the camera to her partner, announcing, "It is on."

He nods his thanks before turning the camera on himself, smiling and saying brightly, "Well, baby girl, happy first Christmas! You are six days old and your mom keeps saying you won't remember this, but I think you will –especially since you have proper documentation courtesy of your dad. And McGee who thoughtfully provided us with the camcorder in the first place. Anyway," Tony turns the camera to Ziva, dressed in sweats and a long-sleeved tee and sitting on the couch, sticking her tongue out at him, wrinkling her nose, "there's Mom looking lovely as ever. And there," the camera pivots to focus on the sleeping baby, "are you. Hi baby Charlie." And baby Charlie doesn't seem to realize what exactly is unfolding around her, simply content to lie in her seat, sound asleep. "You're missing the festivities, baby girl. Ziva, you want to say anything to your daughter?"

Ziva shakes her head, a smile creeping across her features, "You have a very silly dad, Charlie. But we love him, yes? Yes. Merry Christmas, tatelah."

"You missed Hanukkah, Charlie, but that's okay. I have a feeling it will be made up a hundredfold next year . . . . Now, don't you love the décor?" He pans the camera around the room before pausing heavily on the tree. "Look it there, someone hit the Christmas present jackpot . . . . And because I forgot to charge the battery, we just recap a bit later." He looks up at Ziva, her dark eyes thoroughly amused, as he sets the now futile camera to the side, his expression slightly sheepish. "Oops."

She chuckles, fingers caressing Charlie foot absently. "We will come back to that, Tony," she says gently before suggesting, "Let's open the presents."

There are five presents under the tree, all in varying sizes and wrappings. Tony plucks up the largest box shroud in black paper with candy canes printed on the surface and a big red bow. "Abby," Ziva acknowledges before Tony is even able to read the card –moot point anyway since it's obvious. He grins, tugging at the ribbon, tearing at the paper. And he laughs the moment he pries the box open and sees what exactly Abby had picked out for Charlie.

He tosses the stuffed animal at Ziva, who catches it effortlessly, silently grateful that the toy did not emit any noises. It is a cat, the bright blue eyes staring unseeingly out a fringe of dark raven fur that is very very soft to the touch. And it isn't so much the cat itself that is hysterical, but the wardrobe choice the cat dons. A strip of black cloth is secured around the animal's eyes, an effective mask that compliments the black tunic the cat has on. And Abby has taken two wine corks, spray painted them black, and attached them to a rubber band chain, creating mini kitty nunchucks.

"It is a ninja cat," Ziva says in disbelief, smiling at the plush animal then looking up at Tony. "Abby made Charlie a ninja cat."

The next gift is opened by Ziva, nimble fingers carefully lifting the lid off the velvet hatbox as a smile lights up her face. The note is written in Ducky's familiar scrawl: _Dear Charlie Grace, this was one of Mother's favorites –I gave it to her one Christmas when I was a little boy quite some time ago. I thought you may enjoy it. The flowers are called tree mallows, mountain avens, red campions, dog roses, and, of course, Mother's favorite, yellow roses (and, while not native to Scotland, beautiful just the same). Now as I finish up this little note, my dear Charlie Grace, I should like to include an old Scottish toast that is prayed on Christmas day: 'May God shower joy upon us, my dear family, Christmas brings us all good things. God give us grace to see the New Year; and if we do not increase in numbers may we at all events not decrease.' Of course, our little family has grown now to include you, but there is the blessing. Merry Christmas, Ducky._

Dark eyes well up with tears that are rapidly blinked away –damned hormones- as she runs a finger over the porcelain teapot nestled in the box. And she's seen it before, the last visit to Ducky's just before Mrs. Mallard died, a small collection of teapots displayed proudly in the kitchen. She remembers admiring it, this particular one, because it seemed so delicate and beautiful with the hand-painted flowers, the details in the red and white and pink. And when she lifts the kettle from its box and hands it carefully to Tony so he can see, he cannot help but think that for a couple with virtually no ties to their biological families, there sure seems to be quite a few heirlooms being passed around. Broken rules and golden necklaces, honest advice and cherished teapots.

The next box is actually a shoebox of all things. And right when Tony goes to lift the lid, Charlie jerks wildly in her sleep, eyes flying open in shock at the sudden reflex. Ziva calmly lifts her up from her seat, cradling her against her collarbone, stroking her back. And Charlie merely rubs her face against her mother's shirt, emitting a soft sigh, falling back asleep as if never disturbed.

Tony raises his eyebrows and Ziva dismisses his worries, "She is fine. Infantile reflex. Common. . . . What is it?" And she inclines her head to the box in Tony's lap and his eyes drift back down-

He holds it up to her, the small boat fitting in Tony's cupped hands, intricately carved and meticulously sanded. Extracted from what most likely is the same timber as the rocking chair in the other room, the grain is flawless as she runs her fingers over the smooth wood. A miniature mermaid adorns the front bow and several canvas sails hang gaily on little masts –complete with a crow's nest no less. Loopy cursive engraved on the starboard side proclaims the vessel: Charlie Grace. It is so very Gibbs and so very perfect.

"What does the card say?" Ziva asks and Tony passes up the slip of paper that had been taped to the box. The note is a simple to and from. To Charlie, From Gibbs. And Anthony DiNozzo, Sr. is a washout and Eli David all but dead and that is okay. Because Charlie has Gibbs.

The next box is long and thin, a while ribbon wrapped neatly around the trademark Tiffany blue. Tony passes it to Ziva, who takes it curiously. She tugs the ribbon loose, letting it fall simmering beside her, and pries open the lid, breath catching at the jewelry piece nestled in the satin. He watches her, mesmerized, as trembling fingers lift the silver chain, the Star of David pendant at the end spinning lazily in the air.

"It is beautiful, Tony," she murmurs, eyes meeting his. And he beams at her. He doesn't have to explain that he saw it more fitting that Charlie wear a necklace of her very own, because Tali David's is beautiful in its own right, but it is still Tali David's. Charlie's necklace, her own Star, has a completely clean slate, not tarnished by bomb debris or desert sand, sad memories and empty-eyed ghosts.

Ziva lays the necklace over the baby's chest and slips off the couch, reaching out and cupping Tony's cheek with her palm. He meets her halfway, their lips brushing gently, once, twice. And he very quietly whispers, "Merry Christmas, sweetcheeks."

And this, he thinks, surely must be what is wonderful about life.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Only the epilogue to go! Much love, keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Google it.**

The Inevitable

She lowers Charlie gently onto the mattress, leaning against the crib's railing, stroking the baby's cheek. And then she drapes one of the nuns' knit blankets over the infant's lower half, murmuring soft nothings as Charlie flexes her little hand, fingers fisting and relaxing. Ziva presses a kiss onto her own fingers, lowering her hand down to touch the top of Charlie's head, smoothing the feathery wisps of hair.

"Lailah tov, neshomeleh." She turns to smile at Tony, his tall frame leaning in the doorway, watching her amusedly. "I think we are doing pretty good," she whispers, "With the whole parenting thing."

And he flashes her his patent grin, acknowledging thoughtfully, "Well, it's been about five days, you're still sober and I'm still here, so we're already doing better than my parents did."

She chuckles, coming to stand before him, rising up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his.

* * *

She sighs once, a happy contented sigh, inhaling his scent as she leans back against his chest. The end credits begin to role, casting the room in the muted hues of a black and white film, bathing them in pale light. He's lying behind her, pinned between her and the back of the couch. He has his free hand under the hem of her shirt, his fingers splayed across her still swollen stomach, anchoring her beside him. His head is pillowed on the armrest, his feet propped up on the opposite support, and he's literally sprawled across the entire couch. She's curled in a semi-fetal position, the soles of her feet pressing against his thigh. And it's funny, she muses, that a year ago if someone had told her she would one day find herself lounging on a couch with Tony, the father of her baby, on Christmas watching the _It's A Wonderful Life, _she would have laughed. And now, now she finds herself unable to conjure up any other scenario. And she's okay with that.

Tony shifts and she makes a displeased noise of protest as he disengages himself from her and the embrace of the couch. "Oh stop pouting," he chides lightheartedly, crouching down before the tree, reaching toward the back of the towering fir. He returns back to her a moment later reverently bestowing the gift bag he bears to her.

"We said no presents, Tony," she scolds before he can press a finger to lips.

"It was an extenuating circumstance," he placates with a smirk. "Secret Santa remember?" And he's referencing the MCRT's Christmas tradition protocol established three years prior by one exuberant Goth.

Ziva's eyes go wide because, frankly, she forgot. Which means somebody is without a present- "Tony, I should not have been the draw! I never got my person a gift! I don't even know who my person is!" Oh, please don't let it be Abby!

Tony's hand placed on her knee effectively stems the flow of words, shushing her. "It doesn't matter, believe me. I know for a fact that your Secret Santa doesn't mind a bit."

"How could you-" And the cogs turning in her mind are practically visible as she points at him accusingly, "You! You were supposed to give me my person's name."

"He doesn't mind, Ziva," he repeats.

"How do you know – you peeked!"

At least he has the propriety to look properly sheepish. "I peeked," he confesses, "But it doesn't-"

"Who was it?"

"Me. So will you stop pouting and complaining? I'm not mad or disappointed or anything."

Her eyes remain narrowed as she glares at him over the tissue paper peeking out of the bag. "How did you manage that? For me to get you and you to get me?"

He sighs a long suffering sigh, "You honestly drew me. I, however, traded with Abby to get you."

"Of course you did. But I still did not get you a Christmas present."

"Ziva. You and Charlie are my Christmas present, the best I've ever gotten." And she remains silent, grinning slightly, and he adds, "Now will you please stop complaining and open your present?"

She watches him for a few more beats before tugging the tissue paper free, peering cautiously into the bag. Her eyes widen at the sight of the ring box and he's the one that has to reach in and fish the velvet object out, balancing it gently on her knee.

"Don't freak, just open it please."

With steady fingers she pries the lid open, biting her lower lip as her eyes land on the plain white gold band sheltered in the satin. Her eyes flicker up to his face and he explains quietly, "It's a set with the birthstone, you can wear 'em together, if you want. You don't have to wear it at all. I mean, we decided not to do the marriage thing but-"

"Tony." And now her finger is on his lips, quieting him. Once she's certain he'll keep his mouth shut, she removes her finger, movements exaggerated as she slips the band on, smiling at the way it seems to meld perfectly with band that holds the blue topaz stone. "Metzuyan," she murmurs, translating, "Perfect."

He smiles and then, remembering, says, "Read the inscription."

And she has to slide the ring off, holding it up to her eye level to read the looping script of the engraving.

_It was inevitable. _

And then she leans forward and kisses him.

* * *

**A/N2: It's not an engagement ring, so don't get all excited. If it helps, think of it more as a promise ring, as a sign of a monogamous relationship.**


	29. Chapter 29

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

32,444 words, 30 chapters (if you include the author's note), over 400 reviews, 9 weeks . . . . Our Forever is my longest, most reviewed/favorited/alerted story to date. The plot bunny that spawned this entire thing refused to be squelched no matter how adamant I was that I would never ever ever write such a wildly AU fic, featuring a baby no less. Yet here I am. Writing the longest author's note I've ever written –this story here is riddled with a bunch of 'firsts,' isn't it?- because I just felt like I had a lot to say from a personal perspective. I researched the heck out of this plot, relying on a fantastic website (can't remember the URL) that literally outlined a week-by-week development of mother and baby, and catching a couple episodes of some TLC/Discovery Health documentaries. I learned a lot, kept the tense written in present pretty close to consistently (because we all know I notoriously flip-flop sometimes between past and present), met some new friends, and developed another layer to the characters we all love. We shattered some clichés and totally hopped on the bandwagon with others, but we had fun. Or I had fun –and I really hope you guys did too.

I have no idea how many eyes this piece has reached, according to the hit-counting thing on my account, it's somewhere in the 2-3,000 range. And I have no idea how many favoriteds/alerts that were put on this piece, but it was a lot. In fact, my email account has been dramatically lacking some serious cobwebs. . . . . I am writing this author's note to partially try and wrap my head around this thing that was never intended to be more than 10 chapters –a third of what it's wound up to be. Mainly, I am writing this author's note to thank you, everyone who reviewed and favorited and alerted and just simply read this piece. You've all inspired me to write my very best, to give it my all. And so I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You've kept me going and kept me sane and THANK YOU . . . . Now enjoy the epilogue, keep the peace and much love, until next time, Kit!

* * *

A special thanks to everyone who reviewed: 13NCISgirl; alexcullen1; AlexisSophia; Alidiabin; aussiebabe290; avid-reader50; BamonLove; Betherzz; Bubbles799; breakdown156; Cecile-in-Summertime; ChEmMiE; corruptone; cymraes; DefinedGravity; Deirdra098; duma; Ellyn89; Embolalia; emmalynn89; Foxwood 13-Always in my heart; grace.06; grooving; gsr4ever; ImaginePeace; Jananae; Kerrison; Kew121; Le Bibliothecaire; LittleCatt; LunaZola; lostie21; loveshj; Madi13; mar-hhr4ever; marshmeg; Megwolf13; M E Wofford; Mooncombo; MyMindJJ; .; natsien; NCIS-Addict-4427; NCISaddict77; NCISAddict87; ncischick09; Neko-Ochz; Nicoya456; NuthatchXi; oldmoviewatcher; pirate-princess1; purplemonkeyz48; Princess Charley; Proseac; PurdueGirl2012; Rachelahavah; Rosalie Duquesne; SacredAir; serendipitous-15; smileysox303; spinningleaves; Swingflip; Tatelah; Team Rosalie; The Lady Grace; theonewhowrotetatertots; thump; Tiffany331; tonyfan31970; twilight2007;Viktorija; Xoxocaroline; and ZandVsupporter

* * *

P.S. There will be several add-ons to this storyline, but nothing centered around . . . . Oh, you'll see.


	30. Chapter 30

**Epilogue: Our Forever**

_November, eleven months later_

"Done!" And it's a triumphant exclamation uttered quietly under his breath as he stands up, chair rolling backward.

"Finished, DiNozzo?" Gibbs wonders idly, not bothering to glance up from the file open on his desk.

"Finally," the younger man agrees, skirting around his workspace and crossing the fourteen feet separating the desks, dropping the now completed report on the stack of manila files already waiting at the edge of Gibbs' blotter. A few heartbeats later and DiNozzo's already gathered the necessary things from his desk, replacing his SIG in the top drawer and snagging his car keys from their place before the only framed picture to ever grace his workspace.

He passes the desk across from his, tossing, "'Night Simmons," over his shoulder at the petite blonde sitting before her monitor. She glances at him, offering a small smile, returning politely, "Good night, DiNozzo."

And with a wave and a, "See you Monday everybody," he's disappeared through the yawning steel doors of the elevator, eagerly slapping the button that denotes the parking garage because it's seven eighteen on a Saturday night and he's been working for the past sixteen hours straight. And he's got several pending matters to attend to outside the Navy Yard.

His family being his foremost priority.

* * *

There are several declarations that Ziva David never imagined herself hearing (and "Congratulations Miss David and Mr. DiNozzo, you're having a baby" would be one of them) but the current announcement echoing through the apartment has become increasingly customary.

"Honey, I'm home."

And, honestly, she thinks, he enjoys saying that a little too much.

"Hey," he says again as he appears framed in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorpost, regarding her with a broad smile.

"Hello," she greets warmly from where she's propped up against the headboard, their baby girl nestled against her chest, pudgy fingers patting the page of the book open across Ziva's lap. "How are you?"

"Fine. And you?"

She bites her lower lip to curb her smirk. "Fine."

"Eeee!"

Tony chuckles, shucking his jacket as he crosses the room, flopping down in the center of the bed, Ziva and Charlie bouncing slightly at his sudden addition of weight. Pillowing his chin on his arms, he grins up at his partner, "Now that we've all established how fine we are, what literature are we partaking in today, ladies?"

"_Good Night Moon_."

"A classic," he agrees, rolling onto his back so Charlie can perch on his chest. She makes a cooing noise as Ziva places her gently on Tony, little fingers fisting in his dress shirt. "And how," he asks conversationally, running his fingers through the baby's dark curls, "are you today?"

"Oh, she is good. We hit some important milestones today, didn't we, tatelah? She keeps making a 'ma' sound that I will argue means 'mama' and she stood up again," Ziva reports proudly, curling on her side to better face Tony.

"Ah-ha ha!" he cheers, expertly lifting Charlie into the air, sending the room full of shrieking giggles. "That's my girl! Bravo, principessa! And all by yourself."

"I assure you, my pant leg was the only assistance."

"Beautiful. Spectacular. Glorious. And what did the ever lovely Miss David accomplish today?"

"Went on a jog . . . . Took apart my car in search for Charlie's pacifier . . . . found the pacifier on the coffee table . . . . Gave two one hour piano lessons . . . . And do you remember that little black bikini I bought, oh, the winter before I got pregnant with Charlie?"

And he doesn't have to do much reminiscing to evoke the image of her modeling that specific item of swimwear that, unfortunately (or fortunately?) was never worn outside the apartment. He nods, "Yeah."

"I found _that_ in the back of the closet and I am pleased to say it fits perfectly."

His grin is wickedly evocative as he asks innocently, "Anyway I might get to see?"

She returns his expression, twisting it to encompass her own unique variation of suggestive. "Perhaps," she says slowly, smirking, before asking with sweetly feigned innocence, "Chicken for dinner?"

"Ordered a pizza," he informs her with a grin and she nods, deciding that, yes, that did sound more appealing. Ziva straightens up, slipping off the bed before scooping Charlie up in her arms. "She needs a bath," she says as he pouts, sitting upright.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Zee-vah?" he hints, batting his eyes teasingly.

She pauses at the door, knitting her brow in mock contemplation as Charlie fingers her necklace, studying the jewelry with dark, calculative eyes. He comes to stand before her, and Ziva looks up, gazing at him through a fringe of thick lashes, saying slowly, "No . . . . I do not think I have forgotten anything."

He points to himself, channeling his best inner wounded-puppy expression.

She flashes him a grin, "I will bathe you later, Tony."

He blinks in surprise, "I was angling for a kiss, but I will gladly accept the previous offer-" she makes to move down the hallway and he catches the hem of her blouse, "-in addition to a kiss-"

Her lips on his effectively shut him up, her hand coming up to cup his cheek as he brushes back a stray lock of her hair. And Charlie seemingly finds the whole situation hysterical, being caught between her parents' display of affection apparently a source of great mirth for her laughing ends the embrace, though both Tony and Ziva find themselves chuckling at the baby's amusement.

Charlie raises her arms, motioning her desire to be passed to her other handler, reaching towards Tony. And Ziva relinquishes her, smiling as Charlie settles herself against Tony, peering at Ziva expectantly.

"What, tatelah?" she asks. "Have you had enough of me for today?"

A bright glint enters Tony's eyes as he tries –and fails- to curb his rapidly growing smile. "I don't think she's had enough of you, sweetcheeks."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. See, I think the problem is that you're a ninja and she's, well, she's Super Baby." And now Tony's shifted Charlie so that she's laying on her stomach across his forearms, little limbs flailing wildly in a sloppy, albeit adorable, rendition of Superman in flight as Tony lifts her up in the classic Man of Steel pose. Cottoning on, Ziva backs away slowly, hands up in the universal 'harmless' gesture.

"I think she is mistaken . . . ." But Charlie interrupts with a "Ma!" which prompts Ziva into pointing and going, "See! Told you she said it." And Tony just shakes his head, advancing toward her.

Sensing the life or death situation and knowing when an attack is imminent, Ziva quickly turns and runs down the hall, Tony and Charlie following after her.

Over the echoing tide of laughter, Tony calls, slightly out of breath, "Charlie! Mommy only uses her ninja powers for good!"

To an outsider looking in, they're a family. To an insider looking around, they're a family.

One dysfunctional, unorthodox family, but a family nonetheless.

And it was something that neither necessarily needed, and it was something that was certainly never intended (but it will never ever be a mistake). And while they never realized what was missing until they stumbled upon it, they certainly don't intend on going back. Because Charlie Grace has brought more love and happiness and light to their lives than either thought they deserved. Because Ziva David was not designed to be a mother. And Anthony DiNozzo was never supposed to be a family man. And rules were not meant to be broken.

But forever is constantly changing. And theirs is no exception.

* * *

"Dream as if you'll live **forever**. Love as if you'll die today." -James Dean

"**Forever **is composed of nows." -Emily Dickinson

* * *

**THE END**


	31. EXTRA

**A/N: As promised a follow-up of deleted scenes and extras! Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: ROAR! ^-^**

Protective Instinct

_"Never take what you have for granted." Gibbs' voice echoes in his headspace and it rings like crystal in the cool air and he thinks he's never had a firmer comprehension on those sage words._

_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _

He doesn't think he has ever been this exhausted (he has, but at the moment the exaggeration seems appropriate), resorting to propping himself up in a corner of the interrogation room in an attempt to remain vertical while watching McGee pry justification from a vigilante Marine.

Or, arguably, a victim.

"Why, Lieutenant? Why didn't you just wait and let us handle it?" And McGee's voice isn't remotely gentle, but it isn't hard either. He's speaking with a feigned indifference, but it's the slight slumping of his shoulders that give away the strain of the past twenty-eight hours.

It's been a tough case.

Lieutenant Waller stares at McGee with empty, hollow eyes, appraising him wearily. "Agent McGee," he says huskily, his voice nothing but a whisper, "that man killed my little girl –he deserved to die."

McGee's expression is that of barely contained pain and Tony really really just wants to go to sleep. "We know, Lieutenant, but we would-"

"Have arrested him?" the Marine asks humorlessly with a bark of laughter that is devoid of any mirth. "I know what you would've done. And he would have gone to prison, then to court, then back to prison. He wouldn't of even made it to death row. I had to do what I had to do. And I did."

"You realize that you killed a man," McGee says pointedly and it's obvious.

Waller just keeps looking forward, replying with careful measure, "I do . . . . You have children, Agent McGee?"

And McGee shakes his head, "No, sir. I don't."

Waller's eyes flicker to DiNozzo and the special agent steadies himself for the question he knows is coming: "Do you?"

And Tony blinks, nodding his head, but the movement feels foreign and disconnected from the rest of his body. He thinks of Charlie and Ziva and the picture on his desk, a do-it-yourself shot made possible by a self-timer setting and a stepladder, taken on a Saturday because Ziva decided they needed a family photo for the living room and, subsequently, his desk. "A four month old daughter," he finds himself admitting, his voice sounding foreign to his ears.

"Then you understand," Waller affirms with a nod and a phantom grin.

And the scary thing is, he totally does.

* * *

He sits down with a heavy sigh, elbows bracing against his desktop, palms pressing into his eyes as he cradles his head in his hands. He can feel Gibbs' gaze across the empty bullpen and isn't shocked when a familiar voice calls gruffly, "DiNozzo."

He lifts his face, staring unblinkingly at the older man, green eyes silent as he waits for what else is to come.

"Go home."

And he honestly wasn't expecting that exactly.

Gibbs pins him with a long-suffering expression, one that is usually bestowed upon a dog that doesn't listen. "Go home," he repeats. "Finish the report in the morning, take a shower, eat something, get some sleep."

_Kiss your family and whisper a prayer._

DiNozzo blinks, once, twice, and stands up stiffly, grabbing his jacket and car keys and offering a brief nod of gratitude.

He really needs to see the girls.

* * *

She's catnapping when she hears the soft sound of keys scraping within deadbolts, the dull thud of footsteps (Armani loafers size 12, to be precise) and then the click of the front door being shut and the locks sliding back into place. She rolls over onto her side, facing the jarred door to the bedroom, waiting patiently for him to appear framed in the doorway.

He doesn't show.

Brow furrowing in confusion, she slips out from between the sheets, the mattress rising with the leave of her weight. She shrugs on the cotton housecoat over her pajama shorts and tank top, the hem of robe brushing her knees as she moves to the door, the hall, listening as she creeps silently through the apartment.

No sounds emanate from the kitchen, no clank of pots, no chink of dishes. The low drone of the television is absent and the living room is dark and he obviously isn't there . . . .

Golden lamplight spills softly across the carpet, leaking out from beneath the nursery room door which she nudges gently, allowing it to swing open and reveal her partner, keeping a quiet vigil at the railing of the crib.

"Tony," she murmurs, approaching him slowly, ever perceptive eyes absorbing the droop of his shoulders, the tension in his neck. His hair is sticking up in the back where he's been running his fingers through it, a trait that only ever manifests itself when he's stressed.

He meets her eyes over his shoulder and she's mildly surprised at the brightness in his eyes, the moist film that blurs his vision as he watches her watch him.

"Hey," he whispers, voice rough around the soft tone.

"Hey," she replies, stepping up beside him. His eyes drift back down to the baby slumbering deeply, nestled in the safe fold of her crib. One tiny hand is fist over her head, resting limply on her pillow while her other hand clutches a giraffe nestled at her side as a company of other stuffed animals guard her, the plush troupe led by the ever watchful Ninja Cat. Her chest rises and falls rhythmically as her lips twitch upward in her sleep and he hopes she has sweet dreams . . . .

And yes he believes in angels because there lays living evidence corroborating such a declaration.

He leans over and extends an index finger, delicately stroking the warm skin of Charlie's cheek, smiling faintly as she nuzzles toward him. He brushes back soft dark curls, tugging her blanket up around her waist where she's kicked it off in her sleep.

"Tony?" And Ziva's watched this tender exchange, the way the man has touched his daughter as if to never see her again. As if he'll blink and she'll be gone. Ziva reaches out, placing a hand on his forearm and he turns slowly back to her, swallowing thickly.

"You know how cases with kids always suck?" And she nods, encouraging him silently and he continues, "Well, it's much worse once you have a kid."

It's the realization creeping over her features and the understanding noise she makes in her throat that makes him thankful he needn't explain more.

He startles them both when he pulls her against him, burying his face in her hair, holding her as tight as he dares without hurting her. She returns the embrace, slender arms wrapping around his waist as he folds himself around her. She offers him herself, as a core, as an anchor, as whatever it is he needs her to be, she is more than willing.

"She was ten months old, Ziva," he whispers, "Not much more than Charlie . . . . The pictures . . . . I kept seeing her instead . . . . I just wanted to come home and see her and you and . . . ." her lips on his stem the steady tide of words and he clings to the contact like a drowning man to a lifeline.

When air because of utmost importance and they separate enough to breath, she continues kissing his face, brushing the few tears brave enough to break their barriers, the stubble around his jaw sandpaper against her lips. Her hands come up to frame his face, forcing him to look at her.

"Tony," she says voice quietly firm, "come back. I know that it's scary, that it is so very easy to change faces and names and worry –something we both do, you especially, quite well. It is because we love her; it is because you are a good father. But you must not dwell on the future and you must not dwell on the past because then you miss the present." And her words strike a chord in him and he presses another kiss to her lips.

_"Never take what you have for granted."_ Gibbs' voice echoes in his headspace and it rings like crystal in the cool air and he thinks he's never had a firmer comprehension on those sage words.

He totally gets it now.

"Why's it so hard?" he asks, sighing.

"Because it is worth it."

And isn't love always?


	32. ADDITIONAL SCENE

**A/N: Just Tony being and Tony and Ziva being Ziva. And a tender moment, because you can never have enough of those.**

**DISCLAIMER: Agreed.**

Love

_Week 19, July_

He watches her from the doorway as she stands before the vanity, unaware of his presence. The air is humid from her shower, condensation dripping down the steam fogged mirror. Her hair is wet, hanging in loose curls that cascade down her bare back, stray tendrils plastered to flush skin. He can see face reflected in the strip of mirror she's cleared, can see her eyes focusing on the task of moisturizing her shoulders with that lotion she loves.

She's beautiful, simply and irrevocably.

He sidles up behind her, anchoring his palms at her hips, dropping a kiss against the back of her head. "Hey," he whispers, his breath at her ear and she shivers lightly, leaning back against him.

"Hi," she returns warmly, tilting her head toward her shoulder, offering him better access to her skin as he presses his lips against the junction of her collarbone and neck in a hot open-mouthed kiss. His hands leave her hips, snaking around her waist, his palms splaying beneath the gentle swell of her belly.

"I love you. I don't think I've told you that today," he murmurs against her skin, his hands rubbing her stomach slowly.

She chuckles, "I love you too, Tony." And now her hands come up to rest over his, anchoring him there, just below her navel.

"I think I just may be the luckiest man on earth."

"The most mental," she amends with a pleased grin.

"Sentimental," he corrects and she replies, "I know. And you are, just without the 'senti'."

She knows he's pouting even though she can't see and she surprises him by turning in his embrace, looping her arms around his neck. "Hey," she greets again, lips curling up in a shy smile.

He stares down at her, the blush on her cheeks, the easy grin transforming her face framed by damp curls. She's wearing cotton shorts and a bra that conceals milk-swollen breasts and then there's the round curve of her belly that fascinates him because his baby is inside her, growing and thriving and being. Tucking an errant strand behind her ear, he leans down and their breaths mingle. "Hey," he returns, not caring how silly they sound, exchanging pleasantries twice each and smiling at each other like idiots.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she asks, blinking up at him slowly. And he flashes her his patent grin, obligingly stating, "Of course." And his lips are soft on hers and she could seriously kiss him forever, but oxygen is eventually demanded and they have to separate, her forehead resting against his as they regulate their breathing.

His hands slide around from her lower back, coming to rest at the sides of her stomach, his thumbs tracing idle circles. And a month ago, she was initially self-conscious of her changing figure, her abdomen expanding seemingly overnight to accommodate the infant developing within her. Now though, she embraces the added volume, the fact that not even loose tunics can camouflage her bump. Because now the world can see evidence that she is carrying life under her heart, life made from the love of two people. She also finds she is mildly amused at Tony, who marvels at her more openly now, seemingly amazed at the power of her body.

"You're staring," she chides gently, opening her eyes lazily only to meet his as he stares at her intently.

"You're beautiful," he whispers and she brings his face back down for another kiss.


	33. Caterpillar

**A/N: Charlie's about five/six in this little oneshot. I have quite a few mini-snapshots to add to this, so stay tuned! Much love, keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

Caterpillar

"Mom, can I keep it?"

And all she can do is stare down at the child hovering behind Savannah Valentine's shoulder, all glittering chocolate eyes and hopeful countenance.

"Keep what?" Ziva asks slowly, her gaze flickering to the hazel eyes of her friend, who merely attempts –and fails- to reign in her grin.

"Charlie," Savannah says, "your mother hasn't even said 'hello' yet." And Charlie, at least, has the sense to look slightly abashed. "The girls found someone today in the parking lot."

"And Mom says I can't keep it," Aubrey adds, appearing in Ziva's line of sight.

Savannah sighs, repeating for what Ziva suspects is the umpteenth time that evening, "Your father is allergic." A statement that prompts Charlie into asking innocently, "Is Daddy 'lergic to cats?"

"Cats?" Ziva parrots, blinking.

And the two girls take off toward the master bedroom as Savannah steps aside to allow Ziva entrance. "It's a kitten," she explains and sure enough, the girls have returned, a burgundy towel cradled in Charlie's small arms. She presents the bundle to Ziva with a flourish no doubt inherited from her father.

It's a tiny, black kitten with long whiskers and bright, green eyes that watch her unblinkingly from the depths of its terrycloth prison. It doesn't weigh anything, she thinks, the towel having more mass than the cat itself and she immediately knows that Charlie will be bringing the little creature across the hall and into their own apartment.

"What's the verdict?" Savannah asks teasingly and Ziva tosses her a halfhearted glare.

"You sure you do not want it?"

"No way –Luke would kill me. It's all yours."

Charlie is suddenly at Ziva's side, a pink backpack tossed over her thin shoulder, her navy sweater folded neatly in the crook of an arm. "So can we keep it?" she asks again, eyes darting from her mother to the cat and back again. She offers up that familiar grin, only miniaturized, but no less effective.

"We can take it home, yes, but you will have to talk to your father."

"Yes!"

"Why is it wrapped in a towel?" Ziva wonders once she and Charlie have stepped back out into the hall. Savannah offers a one shouldered shrug, "Dunno if it's got fleas." And Ziva's golden skin seems to pale slightly.

=^.".^=

"Go put it in the bathroom," she instructs as soon as she and Charlie are through their front door. Her fingers press the two button down on her cell phone and he picks up on the second ring.

"DiNozzo."

"Tony, do you think you could stop at the grocery store on the way home?"

"Yeah, what do you need?"

"Flea shampoo," she says bluntly.

"Uh," and he's so caught off guard. "You mean lice shampoo? Don't tell me she's got lice."

Ziva sighs, running a hand over her face, reassuring him, "She does not have lice. She has a kitten."

"With fleas?"

"I, ah, do not think it has fleas, I am merely being cautious, Tony."

She hears him sigh and the blinker click to life on the other side of the line, "One bottle of flea soap coming up."

"Thank you."

=^.".^=

When he opens the front door, he's met with the sounds of a children's cartoon, the animated voices sounding familiar, but he can't recall the name of the show. The living room is empty, however, the couch vacant and crayons strewn across the coffee table. There are noises and voices emanating from the kitchen and he decides to try his luck there.

His face splits into a massive smile when he finds his partner and daughter.

Charlie's perching on a kitchen chair pulled up beside the sink where Ziva stands, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, faucet running full blast. And he sets his keys on the table, coming up behind them, peering into the sink basin.

Ziva's hands scrub white foam around a waterlogged . . . . _rat _thing that upon further inspection he realizes is, in fact, the feline. Black fur is plastered against a frail looking body and two tiny ears are flat against the kitten's wet head. Green eyes peer through slit eyelids as it glares, somehow managing to look more pitiful than menacing.

It offers a squeaked meow as he announces from behind Charlie, "Got the flea stuff. And cat food. And a litter box. And litter."

"Tony you are amazing," Ziva calls over her shoulder as Charlie twists around to smile up at him, greeting him with a bright, "Hi, Daddy!"

"Hey, principessa," he says in return, dropping a kiss onto the crown of her head, "How are you?"

"Good! Look, we got a cat."

"Charlie," Ziva says gently, rubbing flea shampoo onto the kitten gently, "what did I tell you?"

Charlie looks from her mother and back to Tony, telling him with all the seriousness of a six-year-old, "Me and Aubrey are gonna make posters 'cause Mom's 'fraid somebody lost their cat."

"And if no one contacts us after a week, I told Charlie she could keep her if you agreed," Ziva finishes, lifting the sodden kitten out of the sink and toweling it dry.

"Daddy, can I keep her?"

He looks between twin sets of dark eyes and pretends to debate with himself silently –even though he's mind is made up. After a pause, he finally smiles again, "Of course."

And Ziva hands Charlie the kitten as she thanks her father over and over, absolutely radiant.

"Have you thought about a name, tatelah?" Ziva asks curiously, leaning back against the counter, watching Charlie pet the kitten.

Dark curls bob as she nods, "Yep."

"And?" Tony prods.

"Kiddypidder." And at her parents blank expression, she elaborates, "We learned about them in school today."

"Caterpillars!" Ziva translates in dawning comprehension and Tony, too, appears enlightened.

"Cat-pillars," Charlie repeats knowingly. "Can I name her that? Cat-pillar?"

Tony and Ziva share a smile, and she innately knows he's going to say something cliché before he even opens his mouth. But Charlie beats him to it: "Welcome to family, Caterpillar."

And Caterpillar, of course, squeaks out a celebratory mewl in reply.


	34. Grandfather

**A/N: Hey everyone! Contrary to popular belief, I was not abducted by aliens. Nor did I fall off the face of the earth. I've just been (insert drumroll here) busy. Shocker I know. I apologize for the wait (does anyone actually wait on my updates?) and I hope to have quite a bit up in the next few weeks. And I am still working on my summer fic (even though summer's almost over, but I figure, hey, it'll be something to do until the premire, right?). Anway, here we go. Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned it.**

_**Grandfather**_

She's sitting on the couch, finishing her math homework, when the landline rings and her mother's voice answers, "Hello." And, normally, she would have tuned the conversation out, but when the audible side of the conversation continues, she can't help but listen. Because her mother sounds . . . . _different_, suddenly.

"I do not understand . . . . Yes . . . . Yes," and then she hears the smooth switch to Hebrew, hears her mother's words flow easily, the sounds both delicate and guttural. She's only familiar with the basics of the language, catching a few choice words that are spoken daily, others merely rudimentary from younger years.

_Aba._

_Medaberet._

_Lama._

_Lo._

The exchange only lasts a handful of minutes when her mother murmurs a distant, "Shalom," and the conversation is over.

...

She hangs the phone up mechanically and takes a deep breath. The sound of chair legs scraping against the tile remind her of where she's at, standing in her kitchen, staring with unseeing eyes at the coffee maker sitting on the counter. She knows he's standing behind her now, she can feel the warmth radiating off his body, but it still surprises her when he says, "Ziva?"

Dark eyes flicker up to meet concerned green as he watches her face intently, but she isn't giving anything away. "What's up?" he asks and she glances skyward, undoubtedly contemplating a cheeky response, before settling on the non-evasive truth:

"My father is in California."

And he doesn't really know what to say to that. "What's he doing there?"

"Dying."

"What?"

"Apparently," she continues, resting her hip against the counter, "he has been sick for some time, cancer in his liver. He's been in California for some sort of treatment, but the tumors have metastasized to other places . . . ." her voice trails off and she stares somewhere beyond his shoulder as he tries, again, to decipher her expression.

"What's his prognosis?"

She focuses back on him, one eyebrow quirking, "Evidently, not good. I told you he was dying, Tony." She softens though, after a minute, conceding gently, "A week, maybe. He is asking for me."

Tony steels himself before asking carefully, "Are you gonna go?"

"I do not know . . . . He wants to meet her, Tony."

"I want to meet him."

She's standing in the doorway in her pajama shorts and a high school football tee, her eyes glancing expectantly between her parents, algebra long abandoned on the couch.

"Charlie-"

"He's dying, Mom," she continues, clearly having already formulated her argument while overhearing the conversation in the kitchen. "I've never met him and now he's dying, I won't have another chance. Please."

Ziva just stares at her daughter and it's crazy because it's almost like looking at herself in a mirror from twenty five years ago. She feels Tony's eyes on hers, feels the question he won't ask aloud. And she nods, almost imperceptibly, a simple dip of her chin. She's thankful he decides to speak because her throat is tight for no reason at all.

"Okay," he says.

...

The hospice center smells like a hospital, she decides as she leans against the stark white corridor wall. The acridness of the antiseptic, though, doesn't camouflage the vagrant odor of death that clings to the place like a shroud . . . . She decides she doesn't much like the hospice center.

She looks down the hall where her mother stands, conversing quietly with a strange man with olive skin and dark eyes. The first thing she noticed when the man met her and her mother in the reception area was the scar over his eyebrow –the scar and the telltale bulge of a handgun holstered at his hip. He brought them upstairs, Ziva telling Charlie to wait a moment before moving down the hall to discuss quietly with this stranger.

The conversation has yet to end.

She wishes she knew what the conversation is about –but, in hindsight, she doesn't know much to begin with, even outside this secret exchange. Ziva David does not talk about her family in Israel; she does not talk about her childhood or the origins of the scars that crisscross faintly across her body. And Charlie doesn't ask. She wonders, of course; especially in her younger years of four and five, fantasizing about these magnificent and bold adventures her mother undertook once upon a time . . . .

"Tatelah," Ziva calls gently, motioning for Charlie to come forward. And she does, shoving off the wall and walking quickly down the hall, pausing before the stranger and Ziva. "Your grandfather is awake, but he is very weak, so if he falls asleep . . . ."

"Do not take it as an offense," the stranger finishes, flashing Charlie a warm smile. "He is excited to be meeting you."

"May I go in?"

"Of course."

"Mom?"

"I will be right outside the door."

...

The wizened old man lying motionless in the bed is not the formidable patriarch she had envisioned. Wispy silver-white hair detracts from the arresting mental image she had entertained as a child; in fact, this man seems too prosaic to even be permitted to claim relation to Ziva David. However, as he stares at her through the thick lens of his bifocals, Charlie can discern a familiar trait in his dark gaze: An unwavering, quiet strength.

He studies her just as much as she studies him. She is beautiful, he thinks, prideful though he recognizes he had little to do with it –Ziva, after all, had inherited his late wife's brilliance. The child is nearly a spitting image of her mother from a lifetime ago: Same dark curls tumbling over slender shoulders, same dark eyes sparkling beneath a fringe of lashes. But, outward appearances aside, there is a distinction between the past and present that is evident in Charlie's entire demeanor: It's an innocence his own daughters were never granted. And it kills him just a little to realize that the child is not like her mother; that she seems genuinely happy and healthy and glowing, untouched by war and turmoil. He knows -tries to convince himself- that he did what he could with what he had. His daughter, however, his precious Ziva, has put his efforts to shame; she and DiNozzo have raised their daughter the way he never could, by making the sacrifices he wouldn't years and years ago. And he finds he cannot fault them for their selflessness.

"You must be my granddaughter," he rasps, raising a trembling hand that Charlie accepts, surprised to find the grip relatively firm.

"Yes, sir," she murmurs shyly, offering a bright smile in compensation for her sudden timidity. And Eli David sighs because, yes, it is true, the child is most definitely Anthony DiNozzo's, the charming persona having evidently been passed down from father to daughter.

"You are quite lovely . . . . my dear."

"Thank you."

"Talk . . . . to me, little one . . . . Do not be shy . . . . Tell me about you."

And she does. She regales him with stories about her eighth period class and her piano recital last month. She recounts the events of her most recent ballet performance, even going so far as to demonstrate her favorite position, which, she explains, loses some of its effect without pointe shoes. He learns about her cat, and her favorite aunt that paints her fingernails black and watches old movies with her. She mentions her best friend and their shared passion for dancing. He asks her about her schoolwork and she rattles off her schedule, mentioning that she's maintained the principle's honor roll at her junior high. She loves history and music and baseball and doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up, a nurse, maybe, or a teacher, and he tells her she has plenty of time to decide.

He listens raptly, memorizing every movement, absorbing every word. The girl has not even been in the room but fifteen minutes and he's already developed a raging fondness for her. But his body is weary and time is unforgiving and he slips, unwillingly, into an afternoon nap as his granddaughter chatters on, unaware.

Eyal knocks on the doorframe, a gentle prompt that the visit needs be wrapping up, and Eli opens his eyes to find Charlie perched on the edge of his bed.

"I think I have to leave," she tells him and he nods –or he thinks he does. Before she can leave, though, he asks one final question, "Tell me, Charlie Grace DiNozzo . . . . Did your mother . . . . ever forgive me?"

And he knows she wants to say she wouldn't know, that her mother never even mentioned him, her father that had committed transgressions she would not pardon; but instead, she nods, smiling, "Yes." Because Charlie may have just met her grandfather, but she is not a cruel person. So she lies, softly, telling him, yes, her mother had forgiven him. Because the truth is she hadn't, but it didn't matter because a list of past sins are no comfort to a dying man.

She kisses him on his cheek and tries not to cry because at thirteen, she knows she will never see him again.

"Do not cry, lamb," he says, "Smile. Be radiant. Keep . . . . that happiness . . . . alive. . . . Will you do that? . . . . Be happy and . . . . love . . . . and live?"

"Yes."

"Pr-promise me," he orders gently with a cough.

"I promise."

"Good girl . . . . Tell your mama . . . . I am sorry for . . . . things . . . ."

Charlie nods, "Of course."

"Ani ohev . . . . otach."

...

Ziva looks up as the door opens and Charlie emerges, tears trekking down her face, and her heart breaks. She steps away from the wall in time to meet her daughter, arms going around shaking shoulders as Charlie buries her head in Ziva's shoulder.

"He's so sick, Mom," Charlie says between sobs and Ziva just holds her all the more tighter, murmuring soothing nothings into her hair.

"I know, baby, I know," she says, tears dripping into dark curls. "I am sorry."

"He –he," Charlie takes a gasping breath, trying to calm down enough to speak coherently, "He –said –he w-was –sorry. He –said –he –he hoped- you'd –forgiven h-him."

"I have, tatelah," Ziva whispers. "I have."

...

She's sitting on the edge of the bed at a Holiday Inn, her cell phone cradled at the junction of her shoulder and neck, her voice quiet so as not to wake the exhausted form sleeping beneath the covers. "Was I wrong?" she asks softly into the receiver, stroking stray hairs off Charlie's forehead. "Did I do the right thing keeping her from him?"

The sigh that filters over the line isn't one of impatience or exhaustion, but one issued from someone who's hurting for them, even though they are hundreds of miles away. "You were protecting her, Ziva. You did what you saw best; you did the right thing," he assures her, and she can picture him right now, sitting at his desk in a slowly emptying bullpen, leaning back in his chair, watching the ceiling.

"I shouldn't have brought her, Tony."

"Hey, now. I'm glad you took her; she wanted to meet him. She isn't going to resent you."

"I know, it is just . . ." she sighs, massaging her temples.

"I know," Tony replies gently, "Listen, you go get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow evening, all right?"

"Okay. You are right-"

"I always am."

"Good night, Tony. I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart. Sweet dreams."

She disconnects the call and thinks about fathers. About Tony and Eli and Gibbs. And she realizes that she did forgive her father because for all his faults, he pushed her to who she is today; he pushed her to find the truly good men in the world and for that she is grateful.

**A/N: :^)**


End file.
